Promises, Promises
by caseyq94
Summary: You love the Winchesters, and in order to protect them, you pay what you believe to be the ultimate price. You agree to become a slave to the King of Hell himself. But what you expect and what you receive could not be more different.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter One_

You stand leaning against the hood of the Impala, your gun resting loosely in your palm; a simple pistol, but more powerful now that you know how to use it properly. You take a rag from your duffle bag on the ground and begin to polish the weapon you have become so fond of. It was a gift from the boys on your twenty-first birthday, and you haven't let it out of your sight ever since. While you buff a smudge off of the barrel, you hear the trunk slam shut behind you and see Dean come around the Impala out of the corner of your eye to lean against the hood next to you.

He nudges your shoulder with his. "You nervous, Princess?" he asks. He must know you are – you tend to fuss over your things when you're nervous. You put the rag away, tuck the pistol into your waistline, and turn to him with a shrug.

"No, I'm alright," you say with a convincing smile. If you are honest with yourself, you're scared to death, but you would never let him know that. What you and the Winchesters are about to go up against is bigger than anything else you've faced before, and if they weren't with you now, you don't think you'd have it in you to take this one on at all. The corner of his mouth twists up into a grin. This façade may work on Sam, but not him. Dean can see right through you.

"It's okay. Crowley's big game, and if you're scared, that's fine." He places a hand on your shoulder. "Say the word, and we can turn around right now. We'll find some motel and drop you off. Me and Sam can manage on our own."

You smile. He's always had a soft spot for you, but it was your lead that brought you to the King of Hell's trail, and you'd be damned if you didn't get a piece of the action. You shrug, "Crowley's not so big a deal. I think I can handle myself in there."

He grins wide. You love to see him smile. It's the only time you get to see his eyes truly shine.

Nowadays it's hard to keep him smiling.

Sam comes around the car and you load up on weapons, salt, iron, and anything you can think of to take on Crowley. Dean and Sam have been chasing him for months now and finally – with a little help from their favorite hunter – tracked him down to an old abandoned warehouse in Topeka, Kansas. After casing the perimeter, you find that he hasn't put any guards on the doors. Your first thought is that this is a stupid move, especially for Crowley. But then again, Crowley has always been smart enough to evade the Winchesters, so he is much smarter than you give him credit to be. This is a very bad sign . . . and you know it.

Dean walks slowly up to the door and wraps his fist around the handle. He turns to you and Sam with his gun up and ready. He mouths the words, _one, two, three._

He jerks the door open and the three of you barge in, but the room isn't an old rundown abandoned warehouse, as you expected to see. The room you three stand in now is elegantly decorated with dark wooden tables and upholstered chairs and a sofa with ornate trim. The lavish sconces on the walls give a warm glow to this strange chamber. Placed in the center of the room is a large throne-like chair with dark red upholstery and enormous Corinthian pillars behind and on the sides of it that reach the ceiling. And sitting on this ornate throne rests the King of Hell himself.

"Well, well, well," Crowley says, his resonant voice filling the room. He brings his hands together and claps mockingly. "The Winchesters have finally found me. Took you long enough." He rolls his eyes and stands from his throne, sauntering towards the three of you with grace. He eyes each of you annoyingly. His gaze lingers longest on you. "Moose and Squirrel I expected, but you?" Crowley looks at Sam and Dean with a hint of genuine shock in his sinister grin. "You would bring along a hunter who is barely into her big girl panties to take on the King of Hell? You two are worse than I am." Crowley only smirks at him and snaps his fingers, making all of their guns and duffle bags disappear into thin air.

Crowley laughs and turns his gaze to the brothers. "Let's level the playing field, shall we?" he says and throws his palms up in front of him, sending Sam and Dean flying through the air and slamming against the walls. He speaks to you without taking his eyes off the other hunters. "Now you've got some time alone with the King, eh?"

You strike quickly. You twist your hand into a fist and punch upward with all you've got. With lightning speed, he grabs your wrist mid-swing and holds you from making contact with his face. He turns and grins, "Ooh, I like this one, boys. Feisty!" As quick as a flash, he jerks your wrist to the side, turning your arm outward at a sickening angle. The sound of bone breaking fills your ears and agonizing pain sears up your arm. You scream as hot tears blur your eyes and stream down your cheeks.

You hear Dean yell through the haze. "Let her go!" he shouts and stands, running a few paces towards Crowley. The demon instantly brings a hand up in front of his face and pulls it into a fist. Dean and Sam collapse to the ground, writhing in pain. Sam spits up blood and Dean doubles over in agony, both crying out so loud that it hurts your ears to hear it.

"Stop!" you shout at Crowley. "Stop it, you're hurting them! Please!"

"That's the idea, love. I don't suppose there's anything you can do about it." His mouth twists into a sadistic grin.

You have no weapons and no way to fight him. He is too powerful, and you weren't ready. You have no ideas. No choice. "Don't. Take me," you say.

He doesn't move, but strengthens his magical hold on the boys. Their screams fill the room and you can't take it anymore. Your boys; he's hurting your boys.

You shout as loud as you can, leaping forward to grab hold of his arm with your good hand, "Crowley, stop it! Take me!"

He wrenches his arm free from your grasp, momentarily breaking his hold on Sam and Dean to turn and slap you hard across the face. "You insolent maggot!" he shouts down at you, "What makes you think you are worth anything to me?"

You turn to face him, keeping your fists clenched tight so he can't see them shake. "Take me instead. I won't fight you, just – please leave them alone."

Sam and Dean cry out to you from across the room. "No! Don't do this!"

Crowley looks at you, sizing you up. His expression stays unwaveringly blank as he stares down at you. He asks, "You would sell your soul to me for the likes of _them_? The ones who inevitably brought you here to die at my hand? Are you that devoted to their ridiculous suicide mission?"

You take a deep breath to settle yourself and take one look at the two men bleeding onto the ground. You led them here. This is your fault, and you have to make it right.

You sigh, closing your eyes and accepting this fate. "I would give you my soul, no strings attached, if you promise not to hurt them," you say faintly. You know what you're signing away, and a large part of you doesn't care so long as the Winchesters can continue their work. They've saved the world time and again, and any part you can play to keep them alive – not to mention for your own selfish needs, because you need to know that they are alive – you will gladly pay any price for them.

Crowley watches you. He smirks and glances at the other two before turning back to you. "What are your terms, love?"

"Leave them alone. Promise to never lay a hand on either of them or hurt them in any way ever again and my soul is yours."

"You do understand what you're asking, don't you? You'll be mine. My own little slave, punching bag, prisoner . . ." His fingers wrap around a strand of your hair and pull lightly. "My own personal play-thing."

His hand slides down the strand to slither around your neck, holding it with a firm grip so you can't pull away. You taste bile as he strokes your jawline with his thumb.

His eyebrows rise slightly, waiting for your response. You breathe in faintly, willing to say ' _Yes, take me with you,_ ' but the words just won't come. You can't help but look down and nod as a single tear trickles down your cheek.

The two of you look to Sam and Dean – his face beaming with victory over them, yours cloaked in sorrow at the thought of never seeing them again.

Crowley raises his hand in the air, his fingers poised and ready to snap you away. "Right. Then let's be off, shall we?" he chimes.

"Wait!" you cry out. His hand freezes in the air above your head, the look on his face questioning. You pray for mercy before you speak. "C-Can I at least say goodbye?" you sputter through the thickness in your voice. For a moment, he is silent as he stares down at you. And just as you think he will refuse, as if a gift from God, he nods his head slightly and shoves his hands into his pockets.

You sigh with relief and turn to your boys. They look weak from Crowley's attack, but they stand tall for you. Sam attempts to cross the room towards you with great effort to hide his pain and you run into his arms, colliding into him and clinging to his chest, burying your face into his faded flannel shirt. Sam folds his gigantic arms around you and pulls you into his embrace. He tilts his head down to yours and places a small comforting kiss on the top of your head. "Don't do this, please. We can find another way to handle him," he whispers into your hair. Your eyes sting at the torture in his voice.

"Sam, don't. This is what I need to do. If I can keep both of you safe, then I will." You look up to his face expecting to meet his deep green eyes, but instead his are trained to Crowley's, watching him maliciously.

"We won't let him get away with this." Now, he looks down into your tear-clouded eyes. "We won't leave you. We're coming for you." He gives you one final squeeze, as if he's afraid to let go, and you kiss him once on the cheek.

You try to smile, but it falls just as soon as it is formed. "Goodbye, Sam." You can't say much more as your voice quakes. You turn from him with the intention to go to Dean, but he is already there in front of you. You stare up at him, his bright green eyes flashing with anger and sadness. You suddenly find yourself at a loss for words. What could you say in the brief moments you have left that would suffice for all that you wish you could say to him? For so long, you have admired him, cherished him, cared for him. He is your hero; he's saved your life more times than you can count and just the thought of not having him by your side causes a pain to leap to your chest. You stumble forward and wrap your arms around his neck, ignoring the sharp burning pain in your arm and pressing yourself as close to his broad chest as you can. He wraps himself around you and holds you just as tightly. He smells like leather and sweat and entirely masculine. ' _Remember him,'_ you tell yourself, ' _you'll never see him again.'_ A sob rips from your throat and Dean rubs his hand along your back to comfort you.

Crowley clears his throat somewhere behind you. There's no time; if there is anything that needs to be said, it has to be now or never. You turn your face slightly so your mouth hovers just over his ear. You whisper words you've only ever spoken in your mind, your voice little more than a breath on his skin. "I love you. I think I always have."

He pulls away to gaze down into your face, his eyes searching yours. A long moment passes where no one says anything. Not a single sound echoes in the ornate hall. Dean brings one hand up to caress your cheek, his thumb wiping the tears puddling under your lashes. Suddenly, his lips come down onto yours and he kisses you slow and sweet, cautiously. Your hand cups his face as you return the kiss. His lips are coarse and weatherworn, but his kiss is soft and loving as he holds you close, as if he never intends to let go. Never have you felt such tenderness and sorrow in the same miraculous moment. Your first and last kiss.

Crowley grabs your bad arm by the wrist and tears you and Dean apart; you grit your teeth to keep from screaming. "Alright, that's enough. As lovely as this little moment has been, we really must be going," he spits impatiently. "But first…" He twirls you around to face him and raises his eyebrows expectantly. When he doesn't speak, but stares down at you knowingly, your own apprehension gets the better of you.

"What?" you say cautiously. He only smirks and leans in close to you, so much that your noses almost touch.

He laughs lightly. "Whether you are selling your soul to me or not, this is – in fact – a deal, and therefore requires some form of . . . remuneration." He grins wickedly. You cringe as his hand slides around your neck again and Dean moves toward you, but Sam holds him back with an arm. He understands what Crowley means just as you do.

"Well?" the Demon King asks you. You turn your head, your face clearly showing your disgust for what you are about to do, and nod. Before you have time to react, his mouth comes crashing down on top of yours. His kiss – so unlike Dean's – is powerful, clearly a sign of his dominion over you. His tongue passes your lips and probes your teeth for entrance, but you clench them as tight as you can to deny him that.. You squirm in protest under his grasp, but he holds firm and even slowly moves his hands around to press against your lower back, pulling you closer than you ever wish to be. Crowley smiles down into your mouth and looks over at Dean, who is seething. Sam can't hold him back as Dean leaps forward with ferocity; but Crowley's fingers are faster, snapping you and him away to a different dark room that smells strongly of sulfur. Crowley releases you and you tumble to the ground, wiping the taste of him from your lips as much as you can and still sobbing from the loss of your boys. From Sam and Dean. You'll never see them both again.

"Oh for fucks sake, would you stop? You know you enjoyed it." You ignore him, and you feel him drag you up as he sits you on something soft. A fiery pain in your arm reminds you that it is broken and will probably never heal right after all the abuse it's endured tonight. He notices you grabbing it to dull the pain. "Here," he says plainly and snaps his fingers. Your arm cracks and shifts in an instant – a brief moment of intense pain and then nothing at all. You wiggle your fingers to regain feeling in the arm.

You wipe your eyes and look around at your new prison. Shockingly, it is nothing like you thought it would be. You expected dark, damp dungeons and chains shackling you to a wall with no hope to ever know comfort again. Instead, you sit on a plush blue quilt draped over a bed with a wooden frame that has carvings of intricate demonic symbols imprinted on the bedposts. You recognize some as warding spells, but most look foreign to you. At the edge of the room is a small wooden table and chair with a blue padded seat matching the quilt. In the corner is a dresser and mirror mounted above that. The whole room is bathed in warm light from a small lamp on the bedside table but there are no windows resting on the cold stone walls.

Crowley moves in front of you, taking a seat in the blue padded chair. "This," he motions to the room around you, "this is your new home. This chamber is yours for you to do with what you will." He stares at you, trying to find some emotional response. The truth is you just don't have anything left in you to care. You sigh and fold your hands in your lap.

He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice is low and gruff. "Look, you've gotten yourself in a real mess here. What you did, you did for those dimwitted buffoons; and though I may not agree with your motive, that's something that even I can understand and appreciate. I acknowledge your sacrifice, is what I am trying to say. So this is how it is going to have to be: I will make sure you are taken care of," his voice dips lower and his indifferent stare becomes very serious, "but when I call you, you _will_ come. I will not be made a fool of. Do we understand each other?"

You look down at your hands, which haven't stopped fidgeting since he started talking. His demands are reasonable, you guess, but you know better than to think that this arrangement has a happy ending for you. You nod, refusing to look at him, and it feels like you are accepting your own death sentence.

He stands. "Fair enough. Tonight, I will require no more from you. I'll send someone to tend to you in the morning." He turns and, just before he shuts the door on your fate and your bed chamber, he quirks a smile at you. "Sweet dreams, darling."


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

That night, you didn't sleep; you couldn't sleep. As soon as Crowley left, the walls that formed in your mind fell and the dam holding back your tears crumbled. You flung yourself against the pale blue quilt, burying your face in the pillows to muffle the sounds of your own sobbing.

They're gone. The two people you have left to love in the world you can never see again, and it rips your withered heart in two. ' _I can't go through with this'_ , you think to yourself. ' _God, please help me!'_ you pray.

Through your sorrow, an empty chuckle rises in your throat. If God were ever to heed your prayers, he certainly wouldn't hear them now. Residing in Hell for the rest of your miserable existence, your soul in the possession of a demon king, forever to be tainted with the evil of your surroundings with no hope for redemption . . . no, God can't help you now.

No one can. So you cry and sob and wallow in your self-pity until consciousness leaves you empty. Your vision fades and you drift off into an empty, dreamless sleep.

You wake up the next morning to a dark and empty room. Entangled in the quilt, your eyes puffy and head groggy from the night before, you slowly lift your head and glance around. There is nothing to tell you what time of day it is, or whether it is daytime at all.

You stand and roam around the room. You spend hours scoping out every single crack and crevice of your cell and find that it is as lavish as you thought it was last night. The furniture is all well-crafted and ornate. You don't expect anything less though from a ponce like Crowley.

Crowley . . . the fucking King of Hell, your captor. His play-thing! The thought makes you shiver. What could he have in store for you? What deranged methods of torture will he use to break you? All you have to go on is what Sam and Dean had told you about their interactions with him and that he was, in Dean's own words, a sick son of a bitch. You are scared, and you are afraid that you may not last long enough for the boys to come to your rescue.

Your days spent here are long, like years slipping through your fingers. You sit in your room all by yourself until you think you will go insane. Food and clothes are brought to you by nameless demons. When they come, you cower in the corner, avoiding eye contact as they laugh and mock the sad little human. Day two you tried to pull the door off its hinges with your bare hands. Obviously that didn't work, so you threw furniture at it and scratched at the paneling until your nailbeds ached.

As day three rolls around – you guess – and you sit on the bed running your hands through your stringy hair, you hear a soft knocking at the door. The door swings open and an older man with a snow-white beard, mustache, and hair to match saunters in holding a pile of folded garments. He places them on the table and turns to close the door.

"Good morning, Madam," he chimes indifferently. He wears a neat suit buttoned up nice and proper with his hands fastened in front of him and a frown pulling down the edges of his moustache. "My name is Guthrie. His majesty has asked me to fetch you."

"What does he want?" Your voice is coarse and raw from not speaking to anyone in days. This Guthrie looks different from any other demon you've come across. He almost looks like his meat suit would have been a nice guy.

Guthrie doesn't answer your question, but instead flicks his eyes to the bundle of clothes on the table, then back to you. "Get dressed," he says flatly.

You stand from the bed and cross your arms in front of your chest stubbornly. "What does Crowley _want_?"

Guthrie's eyes narrow and he raises a hand in front of him. The click of his snap rings out in the close quarters and the bundle disappears. You glance down to see that he has dressed you himself. A silky black dress clings loosely to your body, hanging from one shoulder to taper down and stop midway down your thighs. Thin fishnet hose and tall black stiletto heels make you feel revealed and indecent in front of the old man. Your hands fall away to grasp the hem of the dress in an attempt to pull it down further. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror – your hair flutters down your shoulders in large exaggerated curls, your eyes are adorned with thick black eyeliner and your lips red as blood. Your head snaps back to Guthrie as he opens the door and beckons for you to follow him.

"There's no way in hell I'm coming out of this room dressed like this." You cross your arms again and try for your most threatening frown.

Guthrie is unfazed and gives you an exasperated look, so very tired of your insolence already. "I am sorry to inform, but you _are_ in Hell. And the King has requested your presence. Shall I drag you to the main hall by your heels? Or will you do as you are told?"

You hesitate. After a moment, Guthrie rolls his eyes and steps towards you. You back step away, your hands coming up to defend and you agree to go willingly. Damn him. And damn Crowley.

Cold, dark stone lines the walls of the shadowy hallways that are only lit by the occasional candles shining against the black. You walk closely behind Guthrie. In the distance, you hear the wailing of all the tortured souls down in the depths of Hell itself. You try so hard not to think of all the pain, all the suffering that is happening not far enough away. Dean told you of his time here. He remembered every horrifying detail and told you all he could. A single tear trickles down your cheek at the ghost of his memory, and that is all you will allow as you pull your shoulders back and push all thoughts away, focusing your senses on the black around you.

Guthrie leads you down a series of long halls that wind every which way; you're sure you can't find your way back to your room on your own. He stops at a pair of large brass doors and turns to face you, shoving a platter of food into your arms. "Keep your head high, tend to the master, and _behave_ yourself. His majesty is not a patient man, as I am sure you are well aware." With that, he is gone in a puff of smoke and you stand alone in front of the imposing doors.

Suddenly, they open to reveal a spacious throne room with sprawling archways and stonework twisting up to the vaulted ceilings. The whole room is bathed in light from a single, enormous chandelier hanging low in the center of the court room. And of course, sitting poised atop his throne is your warden. Your imprisoner. Your _master_.

His eyes flick up to yours and he smirks. "Ah, good. You're finally up. My, my, don't you look lovely?"

You walk forward a few steps and place the tray of food forcefully on a nearby desktop. Without looking at him, you grimace. "I look like a whore."

"I suppose that does depend on your perspective, eh? You are in the company of sinners, after all." He grins, rising up from the throne to come close and place a hand under your chin. "When compared to some of the whores down here, you could be considered a rare beauty." He tilts your face this way and that to admire his own handiwork. You refuse to look at him.

His voice turns cold at your lack of a response. "Today, I will be meeting with a few underlings and dealing with them accordingly. Your duty," he forces you to meet his gaze, "is to sit there and serve me as needed." He pulls away from all contact with you, "I assure you, it will be nothing you can't handle. Now, if you will?"

He gestures to an area beside his throne where a small chair has been placed against the wall. You slowly walk over and take a seat, staring straight ahead. He does the same, and you get a twinge of fear being so close to him. Your face from where you sit is only about a foot from his elbow – the perfect striking distance if he wanted to hurt you. You'd rather be on the other end of the room cowering in the shadows than anywhere near him.

He snaps his fingers. The sound of it resonates through the spacious chamber, almost deafening against the silence.

In small groups of three or four, people begin to spill in through the large brass doors. With no instruction from their King, twenty men in black suits stand in rows along the length of the court – one on each side – and the other men and women crowd between them, keeping their distance from the throne. From either fear or respect, you can't be sure. Guthrie enters and stands still in the back of the crowd, staring at you with a withering gaze.

Crowley grapples with a lengthy list of names in his hands. Dragging his finger down the list, he taps a name and reads it out loud.

"Jethro," he calls to the mass of demons. Slowly, they separate and a dark-haired young man approaches the throne wearing a clean grey suit and red tie. He holds his shoulders back and head high, but the crinkle of his brow and the fear in his eyes show you how nervous he really is. He bows low and rises to meet his King.

Crowley eyes him with a blank face. It scares you that you can't read his face, because when he decides to turn that face to you, you worry you won't know what is coming. Just like you've got no idea what he has in mind for Jethro.

"It says here you are in charge of gathering souls. Tell me, last month you collected on how many contracts?"

The demon swallows hard and stammers out, "Forty-seven."

Crowley raises his eyebrows "Forty-seven? That's impressive. A much higher average than those of your compatriots." He watches the man squirm under his gaze and you catch a faint smile play on the corner of Crowley's mouth. "Well done. You have done right by me, and I commend you for it. I promote you to the crossroads. Speak with Guthrie on your way out for a pending list of contracts and training requirements." He dismisses the man with a wave of his hand. The man's face lightens and his shoulders sag with relief.

Crowley consults his list again and calls out for the next subject. "Ah . . . Patrick," he says dryly. The young man is replaced by a fiery redhead in a hoodie and worn jeans. He strolls up to the throne, pausing only briefly to glance at you and wink. Your face twists into a grimace of disgust and indifference.

The redhead smiles up to his leader. "Yes, my King?" he asks without bowing, never dropping that cocky smirk. You chance a glance at Crowley to see that he is frowning deeply. To be denied the respect that is due him must really piss him off. Somewhere deep in your mind, you make a note to remember this.

Crowley clears his throat and stares down at his papers, pretending to ignore the insult. "Patrick," he sighs, "as it says here, you are in control of a number of contracts, but several have gone over their due date. Why?" He looks up to stare down his nose at the demon. Patrick's smirk drops as he begins to defend himself, but Crowley cuts him off. "—Because someone of your position and esteem should not be letting something so demeaning slip by him. Explain yourself . . . now."

Patrick stutters, "I – I've had a lot on my plate . . . and the demons under my control have been slacking. This is not my fault! You should be asking them why they aren't doing their jobs. Not me!" His eyes dart around wildly, looking for an answer or maybe another excuse.

Crowley shakes his head. Then, he begins to shout; his voice filling the chamber. "Here it tells me you have one contract that is seven months overdue. This is unacceptable. Delegates of Hell must be nothing if not brutally punctual _. At. All. Times_! I will not tolerate any further delays from you or any others!" The echo from his voice circles around everyone and dies away to leave a deathly silence. "You decide."

The silence stretches on and you look up to see that he is staring at you. And so is every other demon in the room. "What?" you ask.

Crowley turns in his chair to address you fully. "Decide this man's fate. You determine whether he lives or dies. I will not profit or be bereaved of business either way, so I leave the choice to you." He gestures to Patrick and then passes his hand back to you, symbolically delivering this demon's life into your hands. "Shall I end his miserable existence, or demote him so low that he would wish I had been considerate enough to do so?"

You turn from Crowley to Patrick to the rest of the demons. Why is Crowley giving you this power? Patrick is obviously lazy in his duties, but is it worth killing over? Can you be responsible for his death? You ponder for a moment if you would lose any sleep over the death of a lousy demon, and decide that you probably would, because that is just something you would be likely to do. The decision is not one you would normally make, you know this, but for some reason you can't see yourself condemning him to death. You can't say those words.

Your gaze meets Crowley's, and he has a strange lightness to his eyes like he already knows what you've decided. You give a heavy sigh before you say softly, "Demote him."

"Why?" he asks with a grin.

You stare up at Crowley with a frown. Closing your eyes and turning away to face the stone floor. "Killing him won't make him learn from his mistakes. Let him remember what is at stake when he doesn't do his job."

Crowley nods, satisfied with your answer. "Excellent choice." He gestures to Patrick with an impatient wave of his hand and two of the demons in the rows come up and grab hold of Patrick's arms. Patrick fights and yells – cursing Crowley and cursing you, throwing slurs out at everyone – but before they drag him through the courtroom doors, he sends you a death glare that chills your very soul. Where they took him, you have no idea, and you don't particularly care. What's done is done; you've made your choice.

Crowley sits up straight in his chair. "Next . . ." he calls out amongst the crowd.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

The day in the court room was long, and by now your back is sore from hours of sitting in that stupid chair. The last of the demons from the crowd leaves through the brass doors – leaving only you, Guthrie, and Crowley in the immense throne room. His _majesty_ steps down from his throne to absently shuffle papers around at a nearby desk. Guthrie approaches him with hands clasped behind his back. "If you'll not be needing anything else, my liege . . ." he asks. Crowley waves him off dismissively, and Guthrie disappears again in a mist of smoke and sulfur.

Silence stretches in the empty room as you still sit in your chair, unsure of whether you are still needed or where you should go. You glance over at Crowley. He leans forward to press his hands onto the dark wooden desk covered with papers, his face stern. The furrow of his brow and frown pulling at his mouth speak volumes of his frustration. Without looking up, he says to you blandly, "You may return to your room. I might call upon you later this evening, but for now you are not needed."

You sit there in stillness for a moment, trying to think of what to do. You know the minute you walk out those doors you will be lost in the darkness. Straining your brain to remember the way back, you find nothing. You sigh, agitated by the lack of direction, and shut your eyes to say softly, "I won't be able to find my way."

There is a pause and he turns his head to glare at you from the side. He isn't angry; he looks more confused. "What?" he replies, sounding a little thrown.

"I don't know the way back to my room. The tunnels . . . they're too confusing. It's too dark to see where I'm going."

He stares at you a little longer, his face remaining at the same level of confused. After a long moment, he huffs an empty chuckle through his nostrils. "Come along, then. I'll escort you back to your room."

The hallway leading away from the throne room seems darker and more sinister than before – the black coming from its cold stone walls closing in on you with every step. You find yourself standing just a bit closer to Crowley as he weaves his way expertly through the darkness. "You did well today," he says after much silence between the two of you. You're not sure what to say. _Is that all he wanted me to do?_ You ask yourself. _Just sit there?_ You'd like to ask questions, but you don't want to provoke him, so you don't say anything. He looks over and a smile pulls up on the side of his mouth. "I was wondering why you didn't want Patrick to die."

"It's not that I didn't want him to die," you scoff, and then hang your head in shame. "I just . . . couldn't kill him."

Crowley laughs. "You wouldn't have been killing him. I would have."

"No, I would have been killing him either way. You may have actually done it, but I would have been the one who made that decision, and I don't think I would've been okay with that," you say with disdain at your cowardice. You can't have a demon killed, but you've killed a number of them with your own hands? _That doesn't make sense! Nothing in this place makes sense._ It must Hell, you conclude. Dean had once told you that Hell had changed him. He had confided in you what it was like down here for him and what he did to survive, but so far you have seen none of that. It makes you feel wrong, guilty for receiving particularly fair treatment in the one place that literally tortured someone you care about.

Crowley smirks next to you, looking over at you with a strange look on his face. "You don't belong here."

You approach the door to your bedroom as it emerges from the dark. The two of you walk towards it, but Crowley quickly steps ahead of you, grabbing the doorknob before your hand can reach it. He looks down to meet your gaze as though he may say something – opening his mouth to speak but closing it with a hasty breath. Standing before him, you are able to take in how tall he is, a few inches above your head and he can use every bit of it to loom over you. The strange look on his face though – mouth in a soft straight line, face tilted down to meet yours, eyes surprisingly softer than you expected them to be under that furrowed brow – doesn't match someone trying to overpower. It almost looks like he sees something and is confused. Like he wants to ask about it, but doesn't. You don't understand either, and the frown on your face says so. You want to ask what he is thinking, because it really does bother you that you can't read his expressions, but you know enough to leave the matter alone. What matters in this moment is how close he is. You feel his breath stir the hair framing your face and can't help noticing how incredibly cold it is. His breath is cold. How strange.

Suddenly, that strange look on his face disappears into his usual glower and empty eyes replace the ones you found yourself inexplicably fixed by. He nods curtly and opens the door. You hesitate before stepping inside and he shuts it behind you, leaving you all alone again.

That night, you sleep a little easier than the night before. Sometime in might be the early hours of the night, you drift back into consciousness for no apparent reason. You roll onto your back, cradling your head with one arm and staring up at the ceiling. As you wish for sleep, it does not come, so you let your mind wander listlessly. Somehow, it finds an image of Crowley and the look he had just before he opened your door. There was something about it that didn't look quite so sinister – almost _human_ , you might say if you were describing anyone else. But this is the King of Hell. Is there anything about him that can be considered humanlike? The way he looked at you and how close he was . . . you could almost swear there was something important about that look.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a faint sound coming from the darkness across the room. The sound, a shuffling of feet scraping across the stone floor, sends chills through your whole body. Someone is in your room. You sit up, trying to peer into the dark, but seeing nothing but black. You reach for the lamp at your side.

A firm hand clenches around your wrist and you scream out of shock; another hand covers your mouth, pushing you back against the bed.

"Scream again and I'll rip out your fucking throat!" A male voice growls in the darkness. The man leans closer so you can see his face ringed with fiery red hair and a malicious grin hanging inches above yours. Your eyes widen with fear, and he laughs emptily. "Well this is rich, isn't it? To have my whole career wiped away by the likes of you." His grin fades and his face twists in the dark into a sinister grimace. "Do you know how long it took me to get to where I was? How much I groveled and scratched and killed for years . . . and Crowley's little bitch tore it all down in seconds!" His hands around your wrist and mouth tighten painfully. You squirm under him, but the hand covering your mouth quickly moves to clasp around your neck, squeezing your throat with strength fueled by rage. You can't breathe. Your free hand flies up to claw at his constricting grasp. You try to scream, but all that escapes are small pitiful squeaks and cries for mercy. He laughs again, "So now, I think I'll take something of his. Oh, don't worry . . . this shouldn't take more than a few seconds either." With a sick, twisted grin, he presses both hands down on your neck. All the writhing in the world couldn't help you escape his grip, and all the screaming you can muster isn't even heard by your own ears. Blood rushes to your eardrums and your vision begins to fade. ' _Oh God, please! Not like this!'_ you beg. Tears fall down your cheeks and you choke on your cries. ' _Please, God, not like this!'_

Just before you lose it all – all strength, consciousness, or will to fight – a hoarse voice calls out of the darkness of your room. "Patrick"

Patrick's hands freeze and his body becomes rigid. He glances behind him as his face turns cold with fright. Suddenly, a resonating snap rings out and, to your surprise and horror, Patrick explodes. A black tarry substance flies out of the space that used to hold Patrick and you paw at your face and throat to try to breathe again. You try to cry out, but all it is is a hoarse little gasp. Burying your face in your arms and curling to your side, you hear light footsteps move towards your bed quickly. A hand reaches out to lightly brush your shoulder and you rocket away from it as hot tears stream down your face. "Are you alright?" a soft voice echoes in the darkness. The lamp on the nightstand clicks on and warm light floods the room. Once you can breathe freely again, you open your eyes and turn your head to see Crowley sitting at the edge of the bed. He sits with his hand resting next to you against the blue quilt so that he can lean over you. His face holds a strange sense of calm whereas his eyes have the ferocity you've always seen in them heightened even more. You breathe out a shaky breath as more tears flow down your cheeks to drip from your chin. All you can do is shake your head.

His eyes fall and they change. They are softer, more sorrowful, as the slowly return to meet yours with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. He can't hurt you anymore." His voice grows thicker and he swallows hard. "You were supposed to be safe in here. I am sorry." Again, you see that strange look about him, the sense of human emotion that shouldn't suit him but oddly does. He appears more friendly, approachable, and truly sorry . . . just so _human_.

He stands, clearing his throat and returning his features back to their original cooled ire. He extends his hand to you. "Come with me. I have a place where no one can get to you." You hesitate, not sure if you can trust him. After all, this room was supposed to be a safe place. His eyes become more earnest. "Please. I want you to feel as comfortable here as you can be, and that can't happen if you are afraid of your own room. Or me."

You take his hand and he leads you out your chamber door and into the dark cold hallway. Because of your already pressing fear (of any demon other than him at the moment), you cling closer to Crowley's side like a child, but to your surprise, he doesn't brush you away. It's almost as if he draws you closer as he holds your hand tighter, strengthening the tether between you both. Minutes of winding through indecipherable darkness, he leads you to two very large brass and wooden doors with elaborate designs engrained into the doorframe. Crowley turns to you, releases your hand, and pushes open the doors. Inside lies a bedroom fit for a king. A high four-posted bed pushed against the center wall surrounded by the most ornate furniture and columned walls fill the spacious room. Crowley picks up your left hand and places his right palm on your wrist. You feel a slight burning and, when he removes his hand, a mark is left behind burned into your skin. An elegant pitchfork with swirling prongs rests on the soft skin of your left wrist.

"This is my personal bed chamber. No one is able to step foot inside unless permitted by me." He glances above you both. "The warding on the doorframe forbids anyone from passing under the threshold without this symbol. My insignia." He pulls back the sleeve of his black suit on the right hand to show his insignia burned onto his wrist as well. "You and I are now the only two bearers of this seal.

"You branded me?" you ask, holding your wrist in your other hand to inspect the mark.

He smirks. "Well, you are mine, after all."

He takes your hand and pulls you into the room and guides you to sit on the comfortable plush blankets piled on top of the bed. You look up to him, your hand going to your still raw throat. You can practically feel the bruises forming there with the pads of your fingertips left from Patrick's hands. "How did you know? That that demon was . . .was . . ." You can't finish, but judging by the look of understanding on Crowley's face, you don't have to.

He takes a step closer to you and reaches for your side, his fingers dipping into a small pocket in the dress he brought you you didn't even know was there. From inside, he pulled out a small gold coin. He pulled a similar coin from his coat pocket. "Magical communication coins. I heard everything. And I wasn't going to let that insolent bugger live after slurring my name like that, even if he wasn't hurting you."

 _Even if he wasn't hurting me,_ you think.

With that, he leaves you to rest with a promise to check on you personally in the morning. You try to sleep, but sleep doesn't come.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

The next morning Crowley came by just as he said he would. He was sitting at the small dining table when you woke seated in front of a breakfast tray sipping tea. He looked so serene, and like he really enjoyed the quiet of morning before his duties called him away. You sat up in Crowley's bed. In Crowley's room. Seriously debating having breakfast with Crowley.

You feel some small bubble of courage crawl up from within, and you decide to do something with it. You watch carefully for any telling hint of anything on his face as you ask slowly, "Why did you take me?"

Crowley gives you a curious look over the edge of his teacup – somewhere between a sneer and confusion. "It's only been a week, love. Have you forgotten? You asked."

"You could have said no." You watch him closely. He sits relaxed in his chair, watching you with equal interest. "You must have wanted to. To take me. What good is a human hostage to you?"

He chuckles and sets his cup and saucer on the table. "A soul is a soul. Don't get a big head. You're only a number in millions."

You shake your head, surprised you can get a read on him at all. "No. It's more than that. If what you say was true, then I wouldn't be in your private chambers and I wouldn't be the only other person to bear this seal and you wouldn't be concerned with whether or not I'd be comfortable in Hell of all places! I'd be chained to a wall in a dungeon if I were just a number. And you certainly wouldn't care if one of your demons tried to kill me if I was just a soul. So tell me the truth, please. I at least deserve that."

Crowley remains impassive – eyes grazing over you in a lazy bored fashion. He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest in a very casual manner. "You're right. You should at least know why you are truly here. Well, darling, I can't imagine the truth coming any easier, but you are indeed a hostage. I decided to take you, not only because you were foolish enough to offer yourself to me, but because it was beneficial to me to have you in my pocket. Those boys you followed without a care in the world have been twin thorns in my side for a long time, and having you in my possession keeps them from doing anything stupid. My plans can go unhindered with the knowledge that I now have a leash on those loose dogs."

"I don't control them."

"No, but you have influence over them. I saw it in their eyes when you told me to choose you instead of them. They would die for you and most likely still will just to get you out of my grasp."

Your blood cools beneath your skin. "So that's your plan . . . to use me to lead the Winchesters into a trap?"

Crowley smirks and shakes his head. "I won't lie. That does sound tempting, but I have bigger fish to fry than those bloody plaid pricks. You are just a form of . . ." he waves his hand in the air trying to find the right word, ". . . insurance. With you possibly in danger, they won't be so quick to thwart my villainous plots." He shoots you an evil grin dripping with malicious intent and the promise hanging on his tongue: _keep in line, or you_ will _be in danger_. He leaves you with a picture of that grin stamped into your memory.

Crowley didn't come to see you for the rest of the day. Once he left, you were left alone again in the massive master bedroom. Guthrie came knocking at the door not long after with a change of clothes much more comfortable than what he'd dressed you in the day before. A white cotton shirt a few sizes too big and a pair of sleep shorts. The room itself is cold, with stone floors and walls holding little to no warmth, so you tuck your cold toes under the soft blankets of your bed. No, not your bed is it? Crowley's bed. Crowley's room. Crowley's Hell.

You are Crowley's too. You try not to think about it, but he owns you just like he owns every demon in his Hell. What is stopping him from doing to you what he did to Patrick? Why would he be any nicer to you – you who are his captive and prisoner. He said you were going to be his plaything, but what has he done so far? He has given you choices, given you power over his demons. He has given you lavish rooms to stay in and protected you when you needed his protection the most. He even apologized for you being put in danger.

Your mind latches on to that moment. The moment when you thought it was all over. Patrick had you by the throat and you were ready to give up, but Crowley stepped in and saved you. You feel gratitude, and you acknowledge the anger that bubbles up with it. He is a demon. He is worse than a demon.

But is he something else? That look he had on his face when he stood outside your door . . . it was so intense. You feel it was something almost human. It was so distracting.

Wait. Distracting . . .

You stand up and move to the table where the gold coin he used to listen in on you sat. That was when he slipped it into your pocket, when you were standing there staring up at him like a doe-eyed dame. What an idiot! He just stood there and kept your attention focused on his stupid face while he slipped his hand into your pocket. The thought makes you cringe. You press the coin into your palm with a clenched fist until it imprints into the soft flesh there. Then you throw the coin at the wall across the room, breathing out almost at a whisper, "I hate you."

You waited all night for him to show his face. You expected him to at least pop in to check on you, or to even make sure you were still alive, but he didn't. Guthrie didn't even come by until the next day with food and to take away the old trays.

You sat on the bed, arms folded across your chest, thinking of what you were going to say to him next time he came to see you, or if you were going to say anything at all. You fell asleep praying that Sam and Dean would rescue you soon.

The sound of papers shuffling and heavy sighs pull you awake from a deep sleep. Groggily, you scan the room and see Crowley seated at the table with a mountain of paperwork piled in front of him. You are surprised to see him and sit up in the bed, covers pooling around your hips. The last time you saw him was the day before, at least you think it was the day before. The hours are running together and you fear the days are doing the same. You get a little agitated. He doesn't check in on you at all for God knows how long and then just pops into your room at – you look for a clock – 2:00 in the morning?

"What are you doing here so late?" you ask, your voice hoarse from sleep.

He sighs again and flips to another paper, avoiding looking in your direction. "I do not require sleep like you, but apparently I enjoy our little chats." His voice is flat and apathetic.

Your sneer crinkles your nose. "Apparently?"

He ignores you. "You're an absolute mess, love. Go brush your hair."

You throw your pillow in his direction, missing him by at least a foot. "Screw you, Crowley."

"Perhaps another time," he sighs without looking back at you. Instead of pestering you further, he frowns down at the papers in his hand and flips through them one by one. Minutes go by without another word from him and you think you are perfectly fine with not talking to him right now.

You're not quite sure you can go back to bed knowing he's nearby, though. You try and lay down on your stomach and bury your face into the mattress. You flop onto your side and bunch up the covers under your chin. You even try moving to another side of the bed. Nothing makes it any more comfortable knowing you aren't alone in Crowley's room. With a frustrated huff, you slide out of bed and retrieve your pillow, taking the seat at the table across from him.

Crowley looks up at you and regards you a moment before turning back. You let another moment slip in silence before breaking it. "What are you doing?"

"Paperwork" he deadpans.

He didn't particularly like the bitchface you wore that would rival Sam. Crowley breathes out slowly through his nose and continues to work through the stack. "Contracts from crossroad deals. Used to be this was what I would do consistently back when I was king of the crossroads. Now, I can't find anyone responsible enough to handle expiring contracts, so I sift through the piles on my own. It is tedious work."

You pick up a paper from the top of the stack. It is one contract good for the customary ten years for a man who wanted to be at the top of his career. You imagine there are a lot more like that in the stacks. "During hunts, we would find the poor idiots at the end of their contracts and . . . uh, deal with the demons coming for them. I didn't think the contracts were . . . well, actual contracts." You tilt your head and pick up another. "I had always wondered what it looked like on this end. Though, I never quite pictured demons at work like a desk job."

Crowley looks over at you and sets the papers in his hands down onto the table. "Implementing a filing system was my idea. You should have seen Hell before I got hold of it. After Azazel was gunned down, the demons fell into anarchy. There was senseless murdering and debauchery all across the world. Humans fell left and right and there was no one to stop them. Until I stepped up and brought order to this hovel."

You cross your arms and lean back in the chair. "Azazel had plans too, you know. Sam told me what he had in store for him and how it all blew up in Yellow Eyes' face."

Crowley huffs and turns back to his papers. "Azazel was a fool to underestimate them."

You get a little brave and ignore the twinge in your gut that is trying to stop you. "You are underestimating them too. How do you think this is going to end for you? Everything you're trying to do . . . they'll tear it all down just like they did to him."

"I'm not underestimating anything. It's those bastards that are underestimating me." He is getting heated. His eyes are a warning: stop while you can.

A bubble of laughter springs from your chest, but you try to crush it down. As you shake your head, though, a small blip of it escapes. "Bull shit! Just you wait, Sam and Dean will come for me and they'll take you out just like they got Azazel. Who'll take care of all this crap while you're dead and gone, huh? Maybe Hell will fall and we can all sleep easier!"

Crowley tries to keep his cool and laughs threateningly. The sound causes the twinge of bravery turn to icy fear. Leaning forward towards you with eyes bright in aggression, you worry you've provoked him too far. "Are you so sure they are coming? It's been over a week and my men haven't heard hide nor hair of your lumbering heroes! You should be less concerned about what will happen to me and more so about what will happen to you if they do not come. I saved you once, but there is no guarantee I will do it again!"

You shrink away, but you've got one sliver of courage left. "Do you expect me to thank you for that?" you spit at him.

He starts to shout down at your face. "I EXPECT YOU TO–" He breaks off, taking a second to pinches the bridge of his nose. When he looks back down at you, that human-like stare is in his eyes again. That heavy, intense, lingering stare that seems to burrow through your eyes and root around your mind. You try not to get caught up in that look again and step back away from him. He sighs again. "I don't expect anything from you."

Your mind reels. Why wouldn't he expect something? He is in the perfect position to demand everything from you and you wouldn't be able to refuse. He could take it all away with only a word. So why doesn't he? "Why?" the thought slips from your parted lips.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't look at you either.

"Good night," is the only thing he says before walking out the door and not looking back.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

You stopped counting the days you were left alone. Each morning slipped into each night and you were hardly aware of the shifts of time. Sitting in the room every day without speaking to anyone for the first few days was great. It gave you time to think, time to plot out your next move. But eventually, thinking was the last thing you wanted. You felt trapped in your own mind and the silence of your own personal piece of Hell was destroying your brain bit by bit. You needed to talk out loud to someone, something. Anything.

So you started talking to the inanimate objects of your room. To the rug you paced on, you talked about how much you missed home. To the glistening chandelier, you talked about what you would have done with your life if you'd been given another chance at it. There was a lot you regretted. You used to not think so, but now you did. You regretted leaving home so young to run off and kill monsters for a living. You regretted not stopping in the towns where you hunted to smell the roses, so to speak. You regretted not living a normal life.

One time talking out loud, without thinking, you said that you regretted meeting the Winchesters. You were so shocked that you didn't speak for the rest of that day. You didn't mean it, honest . . . at least, you didn't think you did.

You had never thought that before in your entire time knowing them. You adored them and would have followed them into the fire, but what were you to them, really? You'd never stopped to think about it while you were with them, but why would they have kept such a young and inexperienced hunter with them when there were many who were much more qualified than you? You thought you were partners. You thought they would have come to rescue you by now.

Were they even trying?

Would Sam leave you down here to rot?

Would Dean?

It makes you sick, so you push the thoughts and doubts away. You make it a point to think of Sam and Dean every day so you can remember how important they are to you.

In attack against the slow fall into madness, you create a routine for yourself. Every day, you wake up in the still hours of the morning. You miss the sun shining through a window and the chirp of birds getting ready for the day.

And it never fails, every morning there is a tray of fresh food and a pile of clean clothes resting on the table for you. You pace yourself through breakfast and dress slowly, trying to stretch the time you have too much of as much as possible. Sometimes, underneath the clothes, there is a book left for you. They are normally fairly boring texts – historical journals and old novels much older than anything you've seen before. You spend a few hours with your nose buried in them nonetheless. It's either read until you fall asleep or stare at the wall until you go insane. Sometime later you are pulled away from your reading by the strong scent of sulfur. You look over and sitting on the table is lunch. Crowley doesn't show his face when he deposits your meals. He refuses to come back after the argument the two of you had. But even though he doesn't want to see you, he still wants to tend to your needs. He cares enough to not only keep you alive, but comfortable. You're not sure how you are supposed to feel about that.

The days usually end early so you don't have to wander around your room helplessly. Every night you crawl under the cold silk sheets and bury your face into the pillow. Most nights you cry yourself to sleep.

One night, you can't bring yourself to cry. You're not sure if you can't shed any more tears or that you just don't care enough to produce any. You lie awake for hours staring at the ceiling, thinking. You are so tired of thinking. And you're tired of talking out loud to no one. You crave conversation! The fireplace can't tell you of what it wants or needs. You need to give and return feedback, exchange ideas, even to just listen to another human being. Hell, at this point you don't even care if they aren't human.

He's not human . . . but will he answer is the real question.

You slip from under the covers and walk to the mantle where the small gold coin sits cold on the stone. You pick it up and warm it in your hands, passing it from one palm to another and debating. Planning what to say. Thinking of other alternatives. Throwing out ideas and deciding.

You sit back on the bed with the covers bunched up around your hips and lean back on the headboard. You bring your hands up to your face and speak softly into the coin. "Crowley? Are you there?" You wait. He has never communicated through the coin or ever insinuated that he could, but he's said in the past that he can hear you through it somehow. And yet you wait.

. . . And wait . . .

And wait, trying to be patient, but your nerves are getting the best of you. You hold the coin a little tighter. "Crowley, I . . . I'm pretty sure you can hear me. If you're listening at all, could you—could you come back in here?" Another long moment drags by and you can't help the small "Please" that slips from your lips in a low whisper. You hadn't meant to let it out, but not five seconds later there is another strong whiff of sulfur and a pressure tilting the mattress downward next to you.

"Well, since you said please." That gruff but somehow still so smooth voice sounds beside you. You turn, and he is sitting on the bed above the covers just a hand's breadth away. He looks calm. His face set in his neutral frown that has become his normal expression, but his eyes are light. He tilts his head curiously. You stare at him and for a few moments you have forgotten what it is that you needed him for.

His eyebrows raise slightly as a small grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Are you going to make me ask? Very well. What do you need, love?"

You breathe in slowly through your nose and out your mouth before you speak. "I wanted to ask you something," you lie. You didn't really have a reason to call on him. You just wanted him.

Well, not him per se. Anyone really. Really . . . anyone.

"Alright, ask away."

He has an intrigued smirk pressed onto his face. You look away from his direct line of sight, your hands fidgeting in your lap. You try and think of something you can say, some reason for him to come and see you. Your mind goes to the days of silence and the cold shoulder he's given you. You'd like to be angry, but surprisingly you aren't. You're a bit upset. So you decide you'll ask him about that. Just to fill the silence, you assure yourself.

"Why haven't you come by?"

You see him bob his head slightly out of the corner of your vision, as if he were expecting that sort of question first. He sighs through his nose. "You misbehaved. That little tiff you caused, the spat between us, I didn't much care for that. You needed to be punished, and since I was busy, I left you to your lonesome. Seemed to work just fine, I'd say."

You can hear the cocky grin on his face, but what annoys you the most is that you see his point. It was a damn successful punishment, and here you were calling on him first. You weren't going to apologize, but you didn't have to. He got his way.

"Can I ask you something?" Crowley asks beside you. You don't look up at him but nod your head slowly and unsure. You hear him chuckle lightly. "Why have you been talking to the fireplace?"

You feel the heat of blush creep up your neck. "Oh, so you were listening."

"Not going to pass up on free entertainment." He laughs a deep hearty laugh you've never heard from him and it involuntarily pulls a smile across her face. You hate to admit it, but it feels so good to finally be able to talk to someone else that you don't even care that this is the closest thing to a real conversation the two of you have ever had.

You dare to keep the conversation going. "You said you've been 'busy' lately. What do you do all day?"

"Well, contrary to what you may believe, I do actually work." He rolls his eyes, but he looks bemused as he goes into vague detail of what his responsibilities are. You hear references to contracts and mounds of paperwork. That much doesn't surprise you, but the occasional mention of torture makes you warry. He sees that and smirks, reassuring you that he doesn't like to get his hands dirty if he doesn't have to.

After he settles back into silence, he glances past you at the clock on the wall and sighs. "Well, if there's nothing else, I do need to get back to work." He stands to leave.

A sudden flutter of panic springs forward. The thought of being left alone in this big, dark, cold room makes you lean forward and instinctually reach out to him, your fingers grabbing onto his coat at his forearm. He stares down at you, obviously thrown but expecting a response. Not angry, you note . . . more like interested in what you'll do next.

"Wait . . ." is what jumps from your mouth first, followed by hesitant and insistent for him to stay. ". . . please don't leave me here alone again." You try to steady your breathing when you notice you're not breathing at all. You joke to lighted the panic scratching at your throat. "The fireplace is terrible at making conversation." You try to crack a smile, but it falls just as soon as it's made. All you can think is _don't leave me, please don't leave me alone here_

His face regains its composure and he slowly sets himself back on the bed next to you. He then leans in closer, which makes you lean back out of unease at his closeness. His hand lifts to take yours at his arm into his and gives it back to you, his face still unreadable.

"What do you think will happen here?" he asks simply. His eyes lock onto yours and he stares down deep into your mind. You can feel him rooting around behind your eyes, like fingers scraping through your thoughts. "What do you think there is between us?"

Before you can react, you whisper the honest-to-god truth. "I don't know." You swallow hard and try again more assuredly. "I don't know what you have planned and that scares me. I don't know what to make of you."

"Nor I you." He answers just as honest. That throws you. You thought that he knew everything about you. He'd been listening in on your conversations through that damn coin, he knew of your life with the Winchesters, and if there was anything else to be gleaned, he could read your mind. So what else was there to make out from you? He stares a second more, deciding something. "Tell you what. Why don't we make a little deal?"

"We've already made a deal. Remember? That's how I got here."

He grins. "Not that kind of deal, darling. More like an exchange really."

You eye him cautiously. The last time you made a deal with him you lost your soul. Who's to say you won't lose something worse. "An exchange for what?"

Crowley shrugs. "Oh, certain liberties. I can make living here very comfortable. Damn near delightful if you'd let me. I could allow you time out of this room. I could give you tasks to keep you occupied while you are here instead of sitting in this room talking to the furniture. Perhaps even bring in some things you used to have, things from your old life."

That all sounds amazing. But you hesitate; it was too close to having a large chunk of your freedom back. It all sounded too good to be true. "And what would you want in return?"

His grin changes into something much more cunning. His hand moves too close to you and you flinch, but sturdy yourself when he does not back away. Clearly, he intends to touch you but is waiting for permission, or acceptance perhaps. He brings one hand up and drags the back of his fingers across the side of your face to tuck loose hair behind your ear. His voice changes as well from the gruff silk to a deep rumble in his chest. "Compliancy," he requests.

You know you should want to scream no and slap his hand away. You know you should recoil so viciously that he should think twice before ever touching you again. You do neither though, because the thought of freedom – even just a little bit – is all you need in this moment. So with a heaviness coiling in your chest, you nod your head.

Crowley smiles wide and pulls away from you completely. "Wonderful. I'll start making the arrangements. See you soon, pet."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Crowley came back several hours later with a stack of papers in his arms. By now it is literally the middle of the night and you were fast asleep when he wakes you with a purposeful clearing of his throat. If you had any windows, you'd probably start to see the first tendrils of light creeping into the dark sky.

You eyed him and the stack cautiously. He stands at the threshold only a few seconds without either of you saying anything before he lays the papers out on the table and sits down in one of the chairs. He gestures to the other seat while his hand twirls a fountain pen around his fingers. You scrub at your eyes and get out of bed to sit in the chair. "What is all this?" you ask groggily.

Crowley shrugs. "Standard contract, filled to the brim with all the nasty legal bits you'd expect. I'll just need a few signatures and initials in the appropriate areas, if you please."

You cross your arms over your chest and lean back. You glance between him and the papers. "I thought this wasn't that kind of deal . . ."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Humor me, I'm a business man." You sit there unmoving as he waggles his pen at you. You're not sure what his game is here, but he most likely expects you to go back on your word. The truth is that if he holds up his end of the bargain by letting you out of that room, you have every intent to yield. . . even though he still hasn't said what he expects of you. As long as you get the freedom you crave, you don't care.

It's that incentive that makes you reach forward and take the pen from him. You look down at the stack of papers. "This is a lot of material to look over. What all do you have hidden in here?"

"Nothing to hide, I assure you."

You breathe a laugh through your nose. "I suppose I should get my lawyer to check this out before I sign?"

"I'm sure I have a few down here I could lend you."

"I'm sure you do," you chuckle.

You sign, and it doesn't seem to hold the same heaviness as the first deal you made. You don't feel near as hesitant to agree as you thought you would.

And when you look up from the stack in between you, the silence is comfortable. Borderline friendly if it were anyone else. Crowley seems in a decent mood and you feel . . . there's another word for it your trying to find, but comfortable comes to mind.

Then you remember the vagueness of what exactly you just (literally) signed up for. That nervous twist in your gut returns. "So, what do you expect from me? What exactly am I supposed to be 'complying' with?"

Crowley smirks with an impish grin. "I haven't decided yet."

He stands and rounds the table to stand just behind you. The movement makes you more nervous, but you don't move away. He's just outside your field of vision.

A hand presses down onto your left shoulder. You flinch. A reflex from not wanting to be touched, but the word rings in your mind. ' _Comply.'_ You slowly lean back into the chair and into his hand. The pressure as he lowers it back down is tender – gentle as if he were calming a wild animal. Slowly, gently, he adjusts the pressure of each finger, splaying them over the cotton of your shirt to explore the flesh beneath. The cold from his hand and the deliberate movements of his fingers sends a shiver down your back. You feel vulnerable with his hand on you, and that scares the hell out of you. He can do whatever he wants, and what can you do?

' _Comply.'_

His palm never moves. The entire time he spends pressing and releasing, flexing and extending the pads of his fingertips, spreading them out far and bringing them back in . . . he never moves his palm. With that comes its own safety, you realize. He isn't taking advantage of you with just a shoulder, but that doesn't make it feel any less creepy . . . nor does it help the comfort it surprisingly brings to know he doesn't plan to violate you.

"Have dinner with me."

When he speaks, his voice echoes against the silence that occupied the room. But when he speaks, you don't quite hear it. "What?" you ask, and as you do, the words reach your conscious. Then, you turn in your chair to face him, brushing his hand off as you go. You ask again, this time not quite believing you heard him right.

He doesn't elaborate . . . only nods and stares down at you with unwavering emptiness. He is purposefully devoid of feeling or any readable emotion. Just looking at him, you have absolutely no idea why he would ask you this. You almost refuse on principle alone.

"Think about it," he says simply and brings his face to a more passive look. "I'll send Guthrie around in the evening for your answer, but if you say yes, I'll allow you back into court. I know how much you enjoyed it."

You scoff, frowning. "I didn't enjoy any of that."

"Codswallop. You may not want to admit it, but you like what I do. That day in court you showed promise. And with Patrick –"

"I don't want to think about Patrick again," you say quickly and avert your eyes.

Crowley places a hand on your chin and turns your face to meet him again. "Whatever you feel about him, it happened, and he's gone. He can't hurt you anymore. You made a choice that day and you felt right about it. I need more insight like yours by my side. Some of that 'human innocence' would go a long way down here."

He drops his hand and steps aside to collect the stack of papers on the table, tucking them under his arm and shoving a fist into his pocket. Crowley looks to you and smirks. "Dinner. Think about it."

* * *

You did think long and hard about it, and you came to the conclusion that the idea of sitting across a dining table from the King of Hell wouldn't be the worst thing you could think of, but the allure of leaving your room is just too great to pass up. You hate to admit it, but at this point, you miss the throne room. It is a room other than these four walls that you think are starting to mock you. Even then, the fireplace can only be told so many secrets before it starts to judge you too. To be in the King's court was actually a not all-together unpleasant experience. Crowley said you enjoyed the power, and when you think about it – yes, you suppose you did. He gave you power over life and death with the option to keep your hands clean. That was something you were never given while you were topside. Hunting was always dirty work. Even before you signed up with the Winchesters you were thinking about getting out of the business. Although, they had a way of pulling people back into the life, you noticed. Ellen and Jo Harvelle got out of the life and made a name for themselves with the Roadhouse. Bobby, Rufus, and countless others came to mind as well for wanting something more than monsters and demons and the like. They were strong men who knew what they were doing, but they never got the chance to live out a normal life.

Not to say that a slave to the King of Hell was a normal life by any means . . . but it could be comfortable if you just played along.

' _Damn near delightful if you'd let me'_ Crowley had said. A few moments of discomfort or unpleasantness for certain liberties isn't all that unreasonable, is it?

You are pondering on that when there is a rapping of knuckles on the large doors to Crowley's room. You open it to find Guthrie standing before you holding up a garment bag. His face is as stoic as always. You wonder if he has any other expression.

"I've come to see if you will be taking up his majesty on his offer."

You cross your arms over your chest, feeling unease. "You know about that, huh?" Your eyes bounce to the garment bag. The edge of the zipped cloth cover drops down to nearly the length of Guthrie's calves. Hopefully it is longer than that scrap of fabric he dressed you in last time. You glance back at Guthrie frowning at you. You sigh, "Fine. But I'll wear my own clothes this time."

Guthrie gives you a look and you can practically hear him say ' _eat shit_ '. "No," is all the reply he gives as he hangs the dress on the door handle. He turns to leave but pauses while still in sight. He doesn't look at you as he breathes in slowly. "The dress is rather tasteful, if I do say so myself. I would advise you consider complying with his majesty." Then he disappears down the dark halls of Hell.

There's that word again. Comply. You don't think Guthrie knew how much that word would still you into silence. You stand there unmoving, staring with a furrowed brow at your assigned attire for the evening. After a moment, you gather the nerve to unzip the garment bag and remove the dress.

Your first thought is that Guthrie was right. This outfit was picked with much better taste than last time. Last time you felt like a street girl – all high heels and the epitome of shamelessness. It made you feel dirty. Unclean. This is nothing like that. The gown you hold up to yourself is fine, made of soft flowing black chiffon that puddles at your feet on the floor. A modest heart-shaped neckline that will accentuate your breasts instead of calling undo attention to them, a cinched waist that will flatter your curves, and a delicate black lace shawl to drape across the bare shoulders are all very pleasing to the eyes. A small smile creeps onto your face.

When Guthrie comes to collect you a little while later, he appraises you with a nod and what looks like a small smile if you squint really hard. You brushed your hair so it flowed in soft natural waves and donned the heels matching the dress that Guthrie provided, and as you click down the hall behind him, you find yourself light . . . transfixed.

Maybe you have been hypnotized. A thought comes to mind that this eagerness is out of character for you. You find it hard to believe that in that moment, you are actually looking forward to seeing Crowley. It confuses you. That line of thinking should stop. Now. ' _This is Crowley'_ , you tell yourself. You stomp down any blithe feelings you have bubbling up and focus your mind. ' _There's an ulterior motive here. Pull yourself together and try to figure it out_.'

Your inner ramblings fall silent, though, when you take in the breathtaking scene before you. The dining room is alight with flame in the most elegant way. All along the dark stone walls are sconces pooling wax from melting candles. The tables are bright from grand candelabras holding four and five candles per hilt. Beneath them is the finest spread of silverware and dishes. There's no food on the table yet, so you assume you will be served – meaning you will be served by Crowley's demons. That makes you fiendishly delighted and also a bit nervous to eat the food they've prepared, even though they have been feeding you the entire time you've been in Hell. Doesn't matter, someone could still poison you tonight.

At least you'd leave a pretty corpse.

There is a low rumble of laughter from across the room. You jerk your head over to see Crowley leaning against the wall, secluded to the dark corner where the light doesn't quite reach. You can make out the general form of his physique in the shadows, but it's the brightness of his amber colored eyes lit by the candles that captures your attention. He is still chuckling softly as he pushes off and steps from his dark corner.

You stand perfectly still as Crowley approaches, gesturing to all of you in an appraising manner. He grins, "And what a pretty corpse you would be."

Your eyes grow wider and you frown. You point a finger at him. "Stay out of my head."

Crowley shakes his head. "No. Much too fun not to." He steps away and sweeps a hand over to the table. "Please, have a seat."

You are guided to a chair with Guthrie at your back. When you sit, he drapes a napkin across your lap and steps away with a curt nod. Crowley sits across from you. The table itself is not very big. You and Crowley sit at the polar ends and the edges are just far enough away that if you wanted to touch him, you'd only have to lean forward slightly to reach his wrist resting on top of the tablecloth. Your hands, though, stay twisting together in your lap out of his sight and reach. You feel exposed and uncomfortable being in this beautiful room in an elegant gown with a decadent meal on its way and sharing it with the fucking King of Hell.

The food is brought out one course at a time. You eat slowly and unsure as Crowley sits in front of you swirling around the wine glass in his hand. Occasionally he will take a sip in between long bouts of watching you watching him. It feels odd . . . but doesn't make you uneasy, surprising you. You find yourself wanting to feel comfortable, so you try to crack a joke. "Do you plan to sit there all night or are you going to eat?"

"I don't eat."

"I know," you say as you stab at a cut of beef with your fork. "That's why this was kind of a dumb idea."

Crowley breathes out slowly through his nose, a long-drawn-out sound that makes you look back up to meet his eyes. "I thought this might be a good time for us to talk."

You pause before setting your fork down and dabbing at the corners of your mouth with the napkin and sitting up straight. You level your head in a way to indicate you're ready to talk.

And he continues to stare.

"You're staring," you say aloud.

"You're stunning."

A frown jumps to your face. "And now you're flirting?"

He grins mischievously and places his hand palm up on the table. "Am I not allowed to flirt?" By the look on his face and the amusement there, he had hoped to stun you into silence with that move. It worked, you admit. The last thing you thought would happen tonight would be for Crowley to flirt.

You stare at his open palm. Placing it open on the table could have been more akin to talking with your hands – opening his palm to feign innocence – but you stare at it knowing . . . maybe . . . yes, knowing he is making an effort to be charming, or at least even more than his normal self. That's something you were not prepared for. "Flirting wasn't part of the deal," you say, unsure. You look up to him expecting him to be angry, but his face is calm. A still smile softens his eyes and you are gifted with that golden amber glow from before as you stare into them. You haven't seen him soft before. Calloused, cunning, angry, furious to where you swore you saw horns rise from his skull . . . but never soft. It is jarring, but pleasant. Unsettling and intoxicating in the same moment. You wonder for the second time if you've been hypnotized.

"Now who's staring?" he chuckles. The rumbling sound of it blinks you out of your trance and you feel the heat of blush creep up your neck and cheeks.

"Sorry," you say quickly and turn back to your plate. You begin to eat again, using the act to distract from the creeping feeling of his eyes roaming.

Surprisingly, it is incredibly hard to ignore Crowley.

Your eyes occasionally bounce up to catch a glimpse of him staring at different parts of you. His eyes trace the movements of your hands, of your mouth as you chew, of your neck as you take a sip of wine. You feel awkward under his scrutiny. Desperate for a distraction, you clear your throat and avert your gaze from him. "So, you wanted to talk? Let's talk."

Crowley glances down at his empty plate, tipping his wine glass forward and back. Another demon comes into the room with a platter of the next course. With a deep inhale, he sits straight in his chair and waves the demons away, leaving the two of you alone in the dining hall. "I want this to be a comfortable place, where you can say anything you like and not fear criticism."

"What is it you want me to say?" you ask. He stares at you like he's expecting something specific, but nothing comes to mind of what he might want.

Crowley stretches his arms wide and gestures around the room. "Speak your mind. You can say anything you want."

You pause. Staring off to the side and thinking of something you could say that you normally couldn't. Because it wasn't a safe place? No, that's not what has been holding you back. If you had to pin why, it would be that the man in front of you made you too nervous to move let alone speak your mind. He could end you – like he did Patrick – with a simple snap of his fingers. You look down to the table with a crinkled brow. "I . . . I don't have anything to say for now."

Crowley sighs irritated. "Yes, you do. You just won't."

You start to frown, glancing up to glare at him before looking away. "Well, you can read my mind, can't you? You already know what I'm thinking. So why do I need to say anything when you already know what I am going to say?"

"That's the point, love." Crowley leans forward on his folded arms at the table. "I can hear your thoughts, it's true. But you should know that there is a great deal of difference in what one is thinking and what one says aloud. You don't say much, but you think a great deal. I hear uncertainty and purpose, a scared little girl and a fierce warrior both trying to make sense of things; it's all very confusing." He smiles as he stares at you intently. "I'm not sure which part of you is the one I sit before now. That's why," he gestures to you, "I want to know what you think. Of all of this. Of me. Of you. Hell, tell me what you think of dinner. Do you like your dress? Do you hate it? I'd like to know."

You grow quiet and still. You had told him once that he was a puzzle for you to figure out, but you didn't realize he would be having the same troubles with you. You stare pensively at the space between his eyes. Not looking at him directly, but not meeting that intense stare. After a moment, you look away. "I do like the dress," you mutter softly.

"Good. That's a start." You can hear the smile in his voice.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Time flies when you're in Hell. You don't know how long you've been under Crowley's care, but each day seems further than the last and you quickly lose track of time all together.

You wake up one morning groggily to your dark bedroom. Flashes of memory of a fancy dinner, candles and elegance, a man in the shadows . . . you could almost convince yourself that you dreamt it all.

Crowley is leaning back comfortably in the dining chair at the table, thumbing through a thick leather book in his hands. He clears his throat and speaks to you casually, but not looking away from his text. "I am glad you're awake. I was getting rather bored listening to you snore."

You shuffle out of the covers, muttering under your breath that you don't snore. You sit at the edge of the bed and run your fingers through your tangled hair. "What have you got planned for us today?" you ask him.

Crowley raises his eyebrow above his cup of tea. You roll your eyes. "You're sitting there waiting for me to wake up. So have you got something planned for today? Or are you content to watching me sleep like a creep?"

Crowley grins wide enough for his eyes to crinkle at the sides. "I like to watch."

You roll your eyes even harder, so much your head rolls with it, but most of the movement is to hide the blush creeping up to your cheeks. Crowley settles into an amused smirk before setting down his cup and closing the book. "I thought today would be a decent day to take you back into my court. Not much will be happening today; nothing so exciting as last time. Perhaps we will get lucky and there will be nothing to do at all." He snorted through his nostrils. "Oh, what luck that would be."

"I won't have to wear what I did last time, will I?" Your tone is sarcastic, but the question is real. You don't ever want to wear that 'dress' again.

He shakes his head. "I have something a bit more refined in mind for today." He raises his hand up and snaps his fingers. The crisp sound conjures a classy gray blouse and black shirt that will reach your knees, hose and moderate heels. You look over the outfit with a cautious eye and determine that you won't look like a prostitute in this one, and neither will you be dressed for an elegant dinner with the king either. If anything, you'll be dressed as a sophisticated woman, all primed and ready for business. Like Crowley. And if you had to put a name to him, you'd say is less king more businessman anyhow.

You look over and he is smiling. You feel your cheek pulling at the corner of your lip, too. "Thank you, Crowley," you say with little thought.

He stands, his smile not faltering one bit. "I'll leave you to get dressed. In a few minutes, I will send Guthrie to retrieve you. See you soon." And in one swift motion, he bobs his head in a partial bow before disappearing. The whole time you spend dressing, you think over how much control he has over you. Over the way you dress, what you eat, what you read, what you do . . . but you think back at what all that feels like. It feels like comfort. He is taking care of you, you can feel it in the way he talks to you. That is a kindness. A courtesy. And it means the world to you to have a friend here.

A friend . . . in Crowley. That's not so bad

* * *

As you enter the throne room dressed in your designated uniform for the day, a calm expression has taken over your features. Last time you entered this room, you were angry, upset, sad, and scared. Not now. Now you have come to know what to expect from Crowley. He hasn't asked anything of you yet that was outside your comfort level and, against your better judgement, you've come to trust him.

He sits on his throne with a clip board in his hands with Guthrie at his side. Guthrie tries to summarize the contents of the missive before him, but Crowley just looks bored. His head is propped heavily on his hand. A long sigh heaves his shoulders and flares his nostrils. The sight of him makes you choke back a laugh, but the snorting sound that escapes you makes them look towards the entryway. Guthrie is annoyed by your presence, but Crowley looks a bit relieved behind his hand. He sits up in his chair and signs the forms below him, pushing them into Guthrie's hands and rising from his throne. He dismisses Guthrie with a wave.

Guthrie nods curtly and disappears in a puff of smoke.

"Thank god you're here," Crowley grins, "I thought I'd have to blow my brains out to escape all that paperwork."

You tilt your head and smirk. "I thought an obscene amount of paperwork was part of the job."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Well, yes of course it is, but that does not mean I have to enjoy it. Guthrie handles a large portion of it, but there are a few things that the sovereign must endure." He puts his hand to his chest with the attempts of a humbling expression that only makes you roll your eyes, but there is a grin you can't shake.

He waves his hand over to the throne and ushers you to assume your role beside him during his duties. Once seated, the proceedings begin.

Crowley had been right after all: the day dragged on painfully slow. A few demons came in with inquiries on decidedly boring topics. A few supplicants had something interesting to say, though. One came to brag about the number of kills made this week disguising it as a progress report, and another entered only to say that "the project was still underway," and disappeared without another word. You asked Crowley about it, but all you got was a sideways grin and silence. You didn't push it any further. He wouldn't have told you more anyway.

A few hours later, Guthrie came in to inform that the line of supplicants was finished for the day and that there would be no further interruptions for quite some time. He shut the great heavy doors with a resonating _thoom._

Crowley stands, a long-drawn-out sigh echoing after him as he stretches. He looks weary from sitting all morning. Pressing his hand into his lower back and bending backwards seems to help alleviate the stress pooling on his spine. You feel a twinge in your own back watching him, wanting to do the same. His spine cracks in a few places and he sighs again, this time relieved instead of tired.

"Oh, I am so glad that that's over," he says as he walks over to his desk at the edge of the room.

You sit in the chair, again not sure what to do with yourself. Last time this was the moment that he sent you away, but you don't want to go to your room just yet. It feels so good to be out and free to move wherever you want, but you sit in your chair unsure where to move. If you leave the throne room, will you find your way back? If you stay, will that anger Crowley?

Crowley shifts his weight from one leg to the other and catches you out of the corner of his eye. "You don't have to leave just yet."

"Reading my thoughts again?" you ask with a tilt of your head.

He glances at you with a half-smile. "I could stop, but would you want me to?"

' _No,'_ your first thought.

He grins.

You blush.

He steps away from his desk to stand before you with an outstretched hand. "I have something for you to do if you like."

You take his hand and he leads you to a table at the opposite side of the room from his desk piled high with papers, most strewn all over the surface in no apparent order. "I need these looked at and, as you can see, I've got a stack of my own. Will you help me?"

You nod, and he guides you to the chair. It is much more comfortable than you chair beside the throne. This one has a padded cushion at the seat and back. You sink into it with a pleasant sigh.

For a long while both of you sit at your desks facing each other from opposite sides of the court room, the sound of shuffling papers and scratching of Crowley's feathered quill the only sounds to echo off the immense stone walls. You thumb through each contract with care. You are handling other people's fates, after all. The thought troubles you, you admit, but you remind yourself that you were not the one who made these deals and you won't be carrying them out. They would still be on this table if you weren't the one sitting at it. That is until you come across one that catches your eye. A man selling his soul for something selfish but sad.

In the silence of the room, you clear your throat and Crowley raises his head. "Do you have to send your hell hounds on every due contract?" you ask.

He looks down at the page he was on and answers you plainly. "No, not necessarily _every_ one. My dogs take care of collections quite nicely, but they do tend to leave a mess behind." You grow silent and still. He glances up. "Why do you ask?"

"This contract. An eighty-year-old man diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor sells his soul for ten more years with his wife. The demon you've got on his case has kept tabs on him, because it says she died four years ago. His contract ends next week." A flash image of an old man feeble in his old age being torn apart by invisible hounds strikes to your mind. The fear he must feel . . . it hurts to think of it.

He stares at you for a long moment with an expressionless face. A slow inhale and exhale raises and lowers his shoulders and you watch closely, captively looking for any part of him you can read. Then, he looks down and shuffles the papers in his hands, picking up his quill, and continuing to write. "I will handle that one myself."

"Why would you do that?" you ask after recovering from a stunned pause.

He huffs as he scribbles. "I remember ninety. Not a good year for me. I suppose the man has gone through enough." Crowley tilts his head up to you and smirks playfully before returning to his work. "Perhaps you've rubbed off on me a bit too much."

You blink a few times. "Thank you, Crowley," you say gently. You try to hide the shock from your voice.

More prolonged silences between the two of you stretch on. It is a comfortable silence where you both can think and work in peace, but you grow tired of the same deals and the same selfish people doing a selfish thing. Deals made for career boosts, more money than they know what to do with, fame and glory, unabashed love. That last one somehow has lost its nobility for you.

You lean back in your comfy chair and gaze languidly at the man across from you. His crisp black suit remains wrinkle free as he drudgingly scribbles away at contract after contract. You think back and can't recall a time you ever saw it anything but pristine. Maybe that is a demon thing, or maybe just a Crowley thing. The man really is quite posh.

But he looks youthful, yet he claims to be older than ninety. "So how old are you?" you ask abruptly.

"Not polite to ask a girl her age." He sets his quill and glances off into space, ticking a few numbers on his fingers. "Three hundred and fifty-one this coming Spring."

"Wow! You're ancient!"

"Will you be asking my weight next?" he sighs exasperatedly.

You ignore his sarcasm and start doing a little math in your head. "So that means you were born in . . . in the 1600s?"

"1661."

"What was it like? To live so long ago?"

"Bland," he deadpans avoiding your gaze. You stare expectantly at him for a moment but he actively ignores you. But your interest is greater than your fear of pissing him off, so you get up from your desk and drag your chair across the room and set it on the other side of his desk, plopping down, folding your arms and leaning on his papers. He can't ignore you now. "What?" he asks annoyed as he turns his head over to meet your gaze.

You say lightly, "I've never met a 351-year-old before."

Crowley rolls his eyes and tosses down the papers, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands together over his front. "Fine. My hometown in Scotland was a dark and twisted place. My mother, a witch and foul woman, left me young and I was sent to the orphanage. I grew up, sold my soul, and died. Bland, as I told you."

You pause for a moment, taking it all in. You ask curious, "What did you sell your soul for?"

"Not important."

You tilt your head with a raised eyebrow but ignore his avoidance of the question. "You said ninety was a bad time for you. What happened?"

Crowley's face stiffened, his eyes focusing on the room beyond you. "I was turned into a demon at ninety-three. The process is painful and not something I remember fondly."

"So you lived to be ninety-three…"

"I lived to be sixty-three." He hesitated, shuffling his papers and looking away. "It took my soul thirty years to crack under rigorous bouts of torture."

You focus on your arms folded in front of you. He is quiet, and you decide you don't want him to elaborate. Instead you focus on how long he held out down in the depths of Hell before succumbing to this place. "Wow, you're one tough S.O.B."

His face lightens and a soft chuckle of laughter bubbles up through him. "Glad you think so," he grins. He leans forward off of his chair and continues to shuffle through his papers.

"How did you die?" you ask after a moment.

He sighs and shrugs his shoulders indifferently. "Alone, drunk in a gutter."

He tried to hide it, but you see it there: a twinge of pain. Dying alone . . . you can't imagine the loneliness. Hesitantly at first, you reach out and place your hand over his. "I'm sorry."

Crowley looks down at your palm pressed into the back of his hand. He tilts it around to join your palms, running his thumb gently across the soft flesh of your hand. "It happened ages ago. No need to feel sorry."

You match his gaze, both your expressions soft and open. "Still."

Just then, the great wooden doors to the court room burst open. You pull your hand away like lightning and jump back in your seat. A haggard-looking demon bursts in and scrambles over to the King. You realize you've seen this demon before.

"Jethro, what is the meaning of this?" Crowley says, pissed as he stands to his full height.

"Your grace," Jethro pants and bows hastily. "We have a problem. A big problem, sir." His eyes dart to you. He pauses.

Crowley waves his hand impatiently. "Well? Do you plan on telling me what this big problem is?"

Jethro stands tall and looks absolutely terrified. "Sir. My garrison is dead."

"What?

"Amon, Mara, Judas, and Sitri are all gone, sir. I've found their vessels stabbed with angel blades off crossroads. Each one had devil traps."

Crowley sighed frustrated. "Hunters," he spat.

"Not just any hunters, sir. The Winchesters." Jethro is still panting as you openly gape at him now. The Winchesters? That's the first time you've heard them mentioned the entire time you've been here.

Crowley eyes Jethro. "You're absolutely sure . . ."

"Yes, sir. When Mara hadn't reported back from the potential deal, I went to her last contract and found them packing their supplies and discussing their plans. They want to meet with you."

"Did you happen to hear why?"

Jethro nods. "Something about an artifact they need. A blade, I think they said. I heard Dean Winchester say himself that he needed it now and his brother sounded as if they needed you to get it for them."

Crowley nods knowingly and sends Jethro away with a hasty wave of his hand. Jethro nearly runs out the doors, pulling them shut behind him. Crowley paces across the court room rubbing at his chin, irritated and annoyed.

You give him space, but your mind is reeling. Sam . . . Dean . . . memories flood back and you feel your chest tighten thinking back on them. A sudden rush of longing to see them again pulls at you and you want to scream. You just want to see them, to feel their flannel shirts between your fingertips, to hear the Impala's purr again, to ruffle Sam's hair even though he hates it, to make Dean laugh, to see him smile again. You want them, you want to be with them and you want them here, even though here is the very last place they would want to be.

Crowley stops abruptly, throwing his arms up in agitation. "Oh, please for fucks sake say something!" His abrupt shout echoes and shocks you into shying away from him. Quickly, he straightens and rubs at his face. "Your head is too loud, love. Please, just say it out loud."

His eyes aren't fierce. He just looks tired again. You stand from the chair, but don't move any closer to him as you grip the back of the chair for purchase. "Can I see them?" you ask helplessly.

Crowley watches you intently. He stares at your face for a long moment without even blinking and you feel your skin crawl beneath his gaze. "I don't think that would be a good idea," he thinks aloud.

"Crowley, please. They're looking for you and are killing other demons to get the point across. They want to meet with you about . . . something, I don't know, they need to see you and all I ask is that I go too. I want to see them, Crowley. I want to see them because I want to stand there and look them in the eye when I ask why they haven't come for me. I thought I meant more to them than that." You take in a deep breath, shunning the crack in your voice, and draw your shoulders back. "I deserve that much from them."

Crowley takes a long time thinking. His face stays stoic and unreadable as he openly stares at you. When he finally breaks the connection, he turns and starts pacing again. He moves his hand around as he speaks. "What you don't understand is that the Winchesters and I are in a very tricky predicament. Dean is . . . well Dean is a problem. As ever, but a very big problem and would be worse if it weren't for me. I can't give him what he wants. Not personally. And he knows this, him and Moose, but they persist. I know where they want to stick that blade and it won't be in me, I assure you! No, I can't afford to give him the blade yet, but he will just keep killing until I do . . . which of course will just make the situation worse. So you see, love, it isn't as simple as ring them up and schedule a meeting. I can't have my people call his people if he keeps killing them off before I can get the message across."

"So why not send someone you know he won't kill to give him this blade?" you ask calmly.

He pauses. His back is turned to you and you see his shoulders sag and his head hang low. He thinks for a moment – the expansive room deathly quiet and at the same time buzzing – when he turns and closes the few steps between you. He brings his hand up and cups your cheek, his amber eyes soft and sad. "But would you come back to me if I sent you?"

Lost in the softness of his expression, you place your hand over his. "Of course I would." You run your fingers along the back of his palm. "Don't you trust me?"

He shakes his head. "No, not even a little."

You smile, and it feels as genuine as the beating of your heart. "Smart man." To your surprise, he grins, the beginnings of a laugh dying away at the tip of his tongue. Grasping at a swift moment of bravery, you trace your hand up his arm and lace your fingers at the back of his neck. "Let's make a deal, then," you whisper just before your lips brush his.

You kiss him slow and soft, running your fingers at his neck through the short black hairs at his nape. His hands come to rest at your hips and his mouth begins to move against yours. He is slow and gentle and you think it to be a night and day difference compared to your first encounter. He pulls at your hips until you are flush against him, his hands running up your back pulling you closer still.

Then he breaks contact at the lips alone. He breath unfairly even as he asks, "Would you truly fly back to me, little bird? I must admit I've grown rather fond of you." His fingers trace soft circles on your cheek. "I fear I'll lose you."

"I won't be going anywhere you can't find me." You smile and reach into your pocket, pulling out the small gold coin you used to hate. He takes it from you. Flipping it over in his palm, he looks back at you with all seriousness and pouted lips. "You'll be able to hear me every step of the way," you assure him.

Crowley smiles. "No secrets between us, eh love?"

"Never have been." You take the coin from him and walk over to his desk, fumbling around the drawers for what you are searching for.

You come back to him with the coin secured around your neck from a thick black cord. He nods with approval. "It suits you." Then, his face grows still, his brow scrunched in thought. "If we are going to do this, I want this to be the last time I have to send you away. I want to put you to the test."

You furrow your own brow and tilt your head up to him. "What do you mean?"

He takes your hands and in a flash you are in a in a darker space than the throne room. You step back, feeling the crunch of gravel beneath your feet. A pine scented flourish of wind musses your hair and a shiver runs down your spine. _Outside, I'm outside!_ You look up and for the first time in you don't know how long, you can see a starry sky. You think you may cry.

Your head swivels this way and that. You take in as much as your eyes and ears can see of this lush dark forest when you spot an unusual building not far away. Dropping Crowley's hands, you take a few steps closer to examine. It's a tall concrete structure with a barred door the looks of like would be found on storm shelters. Nothing is getting in that door that isn't supposed to.

You turn back to Crowley standing in the same spot, unmoving but for his eyes watching you. He jerks his chin to the structure. "I'll be honest, I don't want you to go in there. Those denim-wrapped nightmares will take you from me."

You glance back. Sam and Dean are in there? After all this time, all the waiting and hoping, they are just behind a heavy iron-clad door, securely tucked away and impenetrable. You turn back to Crowley. "This is my test?"

He nods stiffly and holds up a finger on his right hand. "I will give you one day. Do with it what you please, but know that at the end of tomorrow, I will be coming for you."

You frown worriedly. "Why are you giving me so much time? Aren't you worried I'll run away?"

He smiles sadly. "What is it they say? If you love them let them go, I believe. That way when they come back, it's real."

You laugh half-heartedly and cross the path between you to take his hands in yours. "What sappy movies have you been watching?"

Crowley mocks offense. "I'll have you know that I am a whore for rom-coms." He smiles down at you, his eyes heavy lidded and so soft. He raises your hands and places a gentle kiss on your knuckles. "I will come for you. I promise."

He lowers your hands, allowing you to go. You lean forward to kiss him on the cheek. "See you tomorrow," you say and turn to walk down the gravel path. In a swift rush of wind and sulfur, you know he's disappeared.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The large concrete structure looks abandoned – its large impenetrable door cold to the touch. The chill night air bites at your nose and cheeks as you take in a deep breath of it's pine scented wind. You feel at peace in the dark woods, so long without nature around you that it now feels foreign and new, but a knot of nervous energy twists in your gut. Behind this door, inside this building, wait the two people you never thought you'd see again. The two people who you prayed would deliver you from Hell.

You'd like to know why they didn't answer your prayers.

Your hands twist at the hem of your blouse. ' _What if they forgot about me?'_ you ask yourself. The thought hurts and you try not to think about it until you give them a chance to explain. You try not to think too hard on what you're doing as you straighten your back and raise your fist to hover over the door. Wincing at the clanging sound, your knuckles rap loudly against the cold metal.

Seconds feel like an eternity. Forever later waiting in the cold, you faintly hear the sound of footsteps on metal behind the door. Before you can gather yourself, it swings open wide with a loud creaking echoing through the night, and you are met by the barrels of guns raised to your face.

You shriek. Your eyes grow wide with terror. Flinging your hands up in defense, you flinch away from the threat. After a horrifying second where the guns don't fire, you crack an eye.

Sam's face is the first you see, though you can hardly believe it's him – he's gotten so tall, towering a head over you at least. And the hair! It's gotten so long now. He's changed so much since you last saw him. His scowl softens to a blank stare when he recognizes you. He whispers your name under his breath – shocked to see you standing before him – and lowers his weapon. Slowly at first, the corners of his mouth twist upward into a huge puppy-like grin. He lurches forward to surround you in a crushing hug. He envelopes you in plaid and you are rushed with the feeling of being held in his big strong arms. It brings tears to your eyes as he draws back and cups your shoulders, ducking his head down to your eye level. "I . . . I can't believe it! How did you –" he laughs. He twists his head around so fast his hair swishes with him. "Dean it's—" Sam freezes mid-sentence, his face turned away from you.

You look past Sam and see him: your Winchester. Dean stands just inside the doorframe, the pistol resting in his hands still being held with an iron grip. His face is just how you remember, as if he hasn't aged a day, but his eyes look older and more burdened. Those green eyes that have lost some of their sparkle stare emptily at you. With his brow lowered and a hard frown etched into his face, he glares at you as if he doesn't know you. Has it been so long that he's forgotten all about you? About the last night he saw you? About the way you sacrificed yourself to save him and his brother? Did you really mean so little to him? With a desperate urge for him to remember, you take a small step forward. "Dean . . ." you say softly, the sound of his name a ghost on your lips.

His hands snap back up and the gun is brought to your face again. You freeze at the sudden movement but focus past the barrel of his pistol. His face is fixed with a deep scowl. The same look he used to reserves for the monsters he hunted. It makes you shiver to see that look directed to you.

Sam snaps his head back at Dean. "Dean! What the hell are you doing?"

"Sam get behind me," Dean orders gruffly. His voice is flat and uncaring, and his face is a threat all its own. Sam, looking between you and his brother, takes a step back from you, still holding onto your shoulder but keeping you purposefully away as a flash of confusion is visible on his scrunched forehead. You see Sam turn to you with a sad, but focused frown on his face.

And suddenly you know. You understand why Sam looks so conflicted and why Dean looks like he'll tear you apart any second. Of course. You've been gone for who knows how long now, locked away in Hell by the king of all demons, abandoned and broken. They think you are one of them: a demon or some unholy thing created by the depths of Hell itself. And honestly, you can't blame them. You are not the same person that they knew back then. Hell has changed even you.

You and your Winchesters would have to start over . . . from the very beginning. Slowly, you step forward towards the mouth of the gun, letting Sam's hand fall from your shoulder as you keep your eyes trained on Dean's, silently pleading that he search them to see you. The real you . . . the you he remembers. You place yourself between both brothers and extend your arm towards Dean, exposing your wrist and forearm to him. For a small flicker of a second, you see unease behind his eyes, but he remains still with his weapon between you and him. Sam whispers your name cautiously; a warning, but you ignore it. "Dean," you say, "test me. Salt, holy water, silver . . . the works. I'm not one of them." You smile softly, a gentle upward turn of your lips. You say just above a whisper, "It's really me."

With a smooth motion, Dean moves one hand away from the pistol to reach around his waist for the silver knife on his belt. He hands it to Sam, who has removed a flask of holy water and a vial of rock salt from his own pockets. Sam takes hold of your wrist gently. With a grimace, he drags the blade across the soft flesh of your inner wrist. You grin your teeth against its sting as you watch hot red blood bubble up from the fresh wound. As an added measure, Sam takes the other cannisters and pours the salt and holy water in the open gash. You gasp at the sudden burn of it, but it is no more painful than you expect it to be. You look up at Sam, blinking away quick tears as he stares down at you.

You turn and hold out your arm as proof to them. _'Not a werewolf, vampire, shape-shifter, ghost, and more importantly, not a demon.'_

Dean lowers his gun and openly gapes at you. God only knows what he could be thinking about all this. Here you are after forever and a day out of the blue. But here he is, after so much hoping and praying, here he stands before you. In the corners of his bright green eyes, you swear you see the faintest glimmer of tears forming as he stares down at you, finally seeing the real you. His eyes smile even though his lips don't. Before you register what's happening, he steps forward and wraps himself around you with enough force to almost knock you over. Your hands fly up and grip at his shirt, mostly so you don't topple over. But because of the force, your face is pushed into his shoulder. He holds you so tight that you can't think of anything other than Dean. He is everything you remember – strong and masculine, but soft and gentle not to crush you. A sob shakes you that you didn't know had begun to form, and Dean's hand presses at the back of your head, his thumb rubbing circles into your hair. He whispers just above your ear, "Is it really you?"

You choke out a laugh full of tears and nod into his shirt. He pulls back slowly, reluctantly, to stare down into your eyes. After several moments, his gaze breaks to flick nervously towards Sam and you see the faintest blush tint his cheeks as he steps back through the threshold. "Um . . . come on in. It's freezing out here."

Sam grins and gestures for you to follow Dean inside with him following closely behind. The resounding clang of Sam shutting the heavy metal door echoes through this strange place. You stand on a ledge behind a metal railing and are ushered down an iron stairwell overlooking what looks to be an old control room. The panels on the consoles blip and whir as if to greet its guest. Sam bounds past you down the steps, swinging his arms wide around him. "Welcome to the Bunker," he beams proudly.

"The bunker," you ask. "Is this where you guys live now?"

Sam offers you his hand as you descend the stairs. "Yeah, we kinda gave up the motel scene. This is our home now. Well, on loan I guess from the Men of Letters."

Dean snorts. "It's not like they'll be coming back for it."

"Men of Letters?" you ask, tilting your head.

He turns to you with a chuckle. "That's a long story, trust me. Come on over here, I'll patch up your arm." You look down with your brow scrunched in confusion. ' _Oh.'_ You'd almost forgotten. Dark red ribbons of blood swirl down through your fingers to drip on the tile floor. You feel Sam's hand on your shoulder as he guides you to a study of sorts and sits you in a sturdy wooden chair. He walks out of the room to get wound dressings, leaving Dean to lean against the wall across from you with his arms crossed over his chest. He observes you from his place on the wall. His face is calm, as normal as if he were regarding a stranger, but his eyes were always his tell. They are soft and gentle. You revel in the fact that you can read him so openly. He is nothing like Crowley and it is a good change to be able to know what someone else is thinking.

"I missed you," you whisper faintly. It is unintentional, and you blush. He says nothing, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward ever so slightly until Sam shuffles back into the room carrying a med kit. He kneels in front of you and cleans the wound with a wet rag. You hiss at the contact and Sam furrows his brow. "I'm sorry," he says softly with an audible thickness in his voice. As he wipes away the excess blood in heavy silence, you know by the way his eyes countlessly bounce to yours with his mind and heart heavy that he means to apologize for more than the sting on your arm. He is sorry – truly sorry – for cutting your arm, for doubting you, for abandoning you, for letting Crowley take you in the first place, for all of it. His jaw is set and occasionally he will sigh while wrapping your cut with the dressing. He is angry and, despite your time away, you know Sam Winchester. You know in your heart that he has blamed himself for you for a long time.

"It's alright," you speak softly. You place your uninjured hand on his bent knee. "You have nothing to be sorry for." After a second, he turns his face up to meet yours and his eyes are sad when he smiles up at you. You can visibly see the hurt and the pain he wears so openly, and it breaks your heart. Sam breathes in deeply and exhales what weight has settled on his soul as a small smile graces his face. He finishes your dressing with quicker fingers and, satisfied with his work, sets your neatly bandaged arm in your lap. He looks up at you with loving, puppy dog eyes. "How can you be here right now?" he asks with a shake of his head.

You blink a few times, not sure of whether you should answer or not. You register that that one was a rhetorical question, but the real ones are bound to follow. So, for the moment, you give a heavy smile that purposefully doesn't reach your eyes. You want to look a bit pained, that way maybe they won't look too closely.

Dean clears his throat from his place on the wall. "You know, if you need to talk about . . . well, anything, we're here to listen." He looks uncomfortable as he shrugs feigning nonchalant. "I've had some experience with Hell, and it ain't no picnic, so I might be able to help . . . you know, if you need any. Help."

Sam turns his head to the side, glancing between you and Dean. "Well I don't. I was only in Hell for like a second." He turns to you with a curious expression. "Dean never told me anything about his time there. What was it like? It's had to have been horrible."

"Sam . . ." Dean warns.

Sam ignores it and edges forward, his eyes still persistent. You breathe in slowly, trying to think up something vague enough to not raise any alarms. You can't outright tell them you were given special treatment when both of them suffered. Plus, if they think Crowley showed favoritism, then they may doubt you after all. You decide to lie as little as possible because these two are vicious dogs, trained to track a lie if they sniff one out. You look away to the polished wooden tabletop to avoid eye-contact and exhale evenly. "It was . . . horrible," _in the beginning,_ "Crowley kept me locked away" _in a fancy room with demon warding_ "and used me like a slave" _only like once, and even then, it wasn't that bad._

Dean's frown is so deep-set that you can hear it clearly in his voice. "Did he – . . . did he hurt you?"

"No," you say quickly. Crowley rarely touched you without permission, and even when he did, it was never anything you did not allow. You are surprised, but then you remember that Sam and Dean do not know him like you have come to know him. They know the demon, not the man. "No, he never hurt me. I guess I was more like his pet than anything else. He kept me fed, protected, and locked safely in my cage." You shrug, but it feels heavy.

"That sounds awful," Sam consoles. "How did you make it out alive?"

Your breath hitches in your throat. ' _Well shit.'_ You sit for what feels like ages trying to conjure some elaborate escape story when Dean asks, "Yeah, how did you get out of there?"

You think to hunch your shoulders and look troubled. "I don't want to think about that place anymore," you say in a lowered tone. You lift your head with a sweet smile and reach for Sam's hand, gripping it tightly. "I'm back now, with my boys." Sam grins back and squeezes your hand comfortingly and Dean wears a small smile from the wall but, somewhere in his eyes, there is doubt.

Sam shakes your hand a bit and stands. "Well, you must be hungry."

As he says that, you feel a pang in your stomach. "Starving," you say relieved.

* * *

Dean sets a plate down before you with a sturdy ham sandwich and a ring of potato chips. You smile up as a thank you as they watch you expectantly. You eat slowly, savoring each bite. Crowley and his demons fed you well, but there is nothing like a good old-fashioned ham sandwich. You say as much thinking it'll make Dean beam with pride. You'd hoped, at least, but he sits across from you as stone-faced as before.

Dean clears his throat and turns to his brother. "Sam, can I talk to you for a minute?" He jerks his head to the hallway behind you.

Sam nods with a straight face. "We'll be right back," he grins politely. You nod your head instead of trying to speak around a mouthful of chips.

A few minutes pass and you are allowed to eat your sandwich in peace. You aren't a fool; you know they are arguing about you. A large part of you wants to listen in on what they have to say, but you know you shouldn't intrude on their privacy. After a few conflicting arguments with yourself, your curiosity gets the better of you and you jump up from the table to tiptoe down the hall. A bit further down and you can hear voices. Dean's voice is the easiest to make out.

"I don't know, Sam. Something just feels wrong here."

"What is there to feel wrong about, Dean? She passed the tests. She isn't one of them. So what's your problem? Why can't you just believe she's back?"

"Because our luck isn't that great! Okay? I'd love it if people just popped up out of nowhere when we wanted them to, but that's not how it happens." Dean pauses. "Okay, well yeah Cas does that, but what I'm trying to say is that just 'cuz we want her back doesn't mean she'll pop back into our lives. That's all I'm sayin'."

Sam scoffs. "So you're telling me you want it to be true so badly that it can't be? That's crap, Dean!"

"I know, but it just doesn't sit right. How'd she escape Hell? And Crowley would never let anything go, especially a hostage."

"Give her a little time. She'll tell us about it when she's ready." There is a pause between them. "Now, lets get back in there and go talk to her. She's been through hell. Literally. She could use her friends right now."

Quickly and quietly, you scurry back into the kitchen and plop down in the chair just as they round the corner. "Finished?" Sam asks pleasantly. Dean's eyebrows are scrunched and he is avoiding eye contact with you.

You want him to look at you now, so you know that things are okay between you. "Everything alright?" you ask tentatively.

Sam nods, but Dean answers quickly. "Yeah, we're golden."

Sam glances at him, a warning, and turns back to you. "Come on, I'll show you where you can sleep."

The three of you walk down the brightly lit hallways, your shoes ticking off the concrete floor. There is so much difference between this and Hell. You aren't afraid of this place, and you have your boys, but it is missing something. Dean was right, something did feel wrong here.

Sam speaks up in front of you, his head swiveled over his shoulder to talk to you. "The Bunker has a lot of rooms, so it's easy to get lost around here on your own. But if you do ever get lost. Just keep walking and eventually you'll find something interesting," he smiles. He stops in front of a plainly furnished bedroom with a single bed, dresser, and door leading to a small bathroom. It is isolated and perfect for one person, with no furnishings other than the necessary. No personal touches. "This one is yours. If you need us," he pointed over his shoulder, "we're just down the hall."

"Thank you, Sam." You grin up at him and he gives you a comforting squeeze at your shoulders.

"See you in the morning, kiddo." He grins back and walks off to his room. Dean follows at his heels.

"Goodnight, Dean," you call out softly. Dean pauses for a second, his head tilting as if he will turn to say something to you, but he takes in a deep breath and continues on. You feel that as a pang in your heart, but step into your room pushing it away.

* * *

You toss and turn for hours trying to fall asleep but can't. Something about the noise in your room – the creaking of rusty pipes from the bathroom, a steady soft drip into the porcelain sink, the ticking of the bedside clock, the gentle whir of electricity buzzing about the room – it is all so much more than the quiet you'd grown accustomed to, and even though it is quiet throughout the whole of the Bunker, the little noises are just enough of a nuisance to keep you awake. And another feeling wriggles under your skin; you are alone. You had become so lonely in your time in Hell. You'd spent days on end without a single word spoken to you from another person or thing, but this is a different loneliness. For the first time in you don't know how long, there are other people just down the hall. You are alone, but you don't have to be . . . so you don't want to be.

You step out into the hallway. Bare feet pad down the concrete floors. You had slipped on some dated-looking pajamas you found in the dresser to sleep in when Sam left you in your room. Soft gray shorts and a plain white t-shirt hang off of you, clearly made for a bigger man. The hall is dark, but still not as dark as you've witnessed. About halfway down, one of the bedroom doors is cracked and you see the faint trickles of light seeping through the cracks in the door. You approach, listening carefully for sounds before knocking softly against the wood. You hear a gruff voice call out, "Come in." This is Dean's room.

You pull the door open and slip inside, clicking it closed behind you. He greets you by name, his voice thick and tired. "Can't sleep?" he asks. You shake your head 'no' and lean against the wall. Dean nods. "I couldn't sleep for weeks after I got back from that place. Is it nightmares? Yeah, me too. Still get them sometimes." He rubs at the back of his neck, his eyes bouncing to and away from you anxiously.

You look around his room. His is so much nicer than yours. It's personalized with all of his things: his guns on the walls, his pictures on the nightstand, his clothes crumpled in a heap around the hamper, his dad's leather jacket thrown over a chair in the corner. He lives here. He has a home here. It is a heartwarming thought when you think back on the times you tagged along with a hunt and stayed in dirt-cheap motel rooms, fighting for bed space with rats and hoping to God your sheets had been washed that week. Now, he has his own room that he can fill with his own things. He is allowed to have things now. You smile.

Dean sits up in bed, his back up on the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him beneath the covers. You suddenly feel bad for waltzing into his room. "I hope I didn't wake you?" you ask.

He shakes his head and holds up an old weather-beaten journal. "Nah, I was up reading. Don't get much sleep lately."

"That's your dad's, right?"

Dean nods. "Yeah. Oh, don't know if you ever saw it, but I started keeping one too." He leans over and pulls a newer, smaller hardback notebook from the nightstand on his right. "It's, uh, still in the works, but I've been trying to add something every day." He flips through the pages, turning each one with care. "I think you made it in here a few times . . . somewhere. Oh yeah, here it is."

You walk to the bed, sitting next to him when he scoots over to make room for you. Dean bends the notebook open and hands it to you. At the top of the page is a date and your name where a title would be written. You read over the journal entry.

 _Thought of her today. Started counting the days she's been trapped down there._

 _Too many. Fucking Crowley won't tell me where he's keeping her._

 _I miss her._

 _She used to snort when she laughed. Wonder if she's laughed since he took her. Doubt it._

 _Doubt she'll remember what it's like up here._

 _Wish I could get her out._

 _Wish I could at least see her again._

 _Would do anything._

"Dean . . ." you say softly.

"I did everything," he says as a pained whisper. You look over and he isn't looking at you. He stares at his hands fidgeting in his lap. "I tried everything to save you. Spells, deals, even tried to storm the castle. That went about as well as you can imagine. Turns out Hell is actually really hard to get into." He tried to laugh, but it died away, a single tear inching down his cheek.

He did try. This whole time you thought he abandoned you, but he tried to save you and couldn't. You hated him because you thought he left you, but that was never the case. You feel terrible. You feel touched.

You fall into him, tucking yourself under his shoulder and wrapping your arms around his torso. "I'm here, Dean. It's alright. I'm right here."

Dean folds in around you. You feel him place a kiss on your hair. Both of you lay there tangled up in each other for several long moments before you feel him shudder in your arms and he whispers into the crook of your neck what a cracked and heavy voice. "How are you here right now?" he asks. "Crowley wouldn't just let you go . . ."

You grow very still against him. You need to lie, and quick, but you aren't quick enough to think up a viable story. Dean pulls away to put a palm on your face, his eyes so sad when he stares into yours. He whispers your name. "Tell me he didn't let you go." You start to panic, feeling like you're losing him after you just now got him back. Already you can see a coldness creep back into his eyes. You plead for him to understand. You tell him that's crazy, but he doesn't believe you. Both hands come up to grasp your face, harder this time as he shakes you. "Tell me . . . tell me he didn't just let you go. Tell me you escaped."

You feel the prick of tears on the corners of your eyes and you know you can't lie to him. It would break his heart. With your hands on his, pleading once more, you shake your head. A sobbing, "No," scratches from your throat.

He doesn't even take a second to blink. Like lightning, he jerks you up off the bed by your wrists and you are being dragged from his room down the hall. You scream at him to stop, that he's hurting you, but he doesn't listen. He doesn't even turn his head when he hears Sam call out from outside his room. "Dean! What the hell are you doing? Let her go!"

Dean ignores him and yanks you down hallway after hallway. You're dragged into a storage room and then off into a smaller empty portion of the room. Dean sits you forcefully into a metal chair in the center and begins to strap you down by your wrists and ankles. "No! Dean, please! It's me, please. Don't! Don't, please, Dean!" He ignores you too. He steps back. Just before he closes off the small empty section of the storage room and encases you in darkness, you see a sliver of Dean's face through the cracks. He is crying.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Your screams echo off the concrete walls of your newest dungeon. You scream and cry until your voice is so hoarse you feel you may never be able to speak again. Panicked little gasps escape between sobs. You try to calm yourself, to think up a plan, but you are too scared to do anything but scream.

"Saaaaaam!" Where is Sam? The last time you saw him was hours ago when Dean was dragging you away. He looked worried and confused, and he looked as scared for you as you were of his brother.

"Deeaaaaann!" You lied to him. Well, not lied directly, you just didn't tell him the full truth. It feels like a lie. He feels betrayed and you feel lower than dirt. You want to tell him how sorry you are. You want him to forgive you and scoop you up in his arms like he did earlier and you want him to never ever let you go again. But, deep down, you know none of it will happen that way.

Hours pass. You give up on trying to keep track. If your time in Hell gave you anything, it is the lack of a care for the passing of time. You could have been down here only an hour, but it feels like an eternity, and compared to what you have felt before, it is no time at all when you finally hear bare feet pad along the floor just outside the barriers of your cell, its wall shaped like shelves to disguise the secret dungeon.

The sounds of screeching metal draw your attention ahead of you. Your head rolls to the side, your hair stringy and pale hanging in your face. You see Dean standing in the threshold of your dungeon cell. He is frowning, and you grimace as you sit up in your hard metal chair.

Dean stares at you. He doesn't move from his spot in the open doorway, his arms hanging at his side with hands opening and closing. His fingers flex like he isn't sure what his next move will be. He doesn't look so angry or upset anymore, but very conflicted. His eyes trace you; you feel their path all along your slumped form. His eyes catch on your wrists strapped to the chair. He curses under his breath, making quick steps to your side and lifting one to turn it this way and that. You feel sharp pain as he moves it around. "The leather's cutting into your skin. Any longer and you'll start to bleed," he mutters. He ignores the way you stare at the empty look on his face and steps outside the dungeon only to emerge a few seconds later. He holds a small box in his hands. He kneels next to you and takes hold of your wrist. Dean side-glances at you. "If I take this off, you gonna behave?"

You nod passively. You're don't want to fight him, and you doubt he'll give you a reason to. He unstraps your wrist, keeping an eye out for any quick movements. His ministrations are quick, but careful. He could be cruel. He could be rough with you, or he could not help you at all. And yet he is.

You lean forward and he leans away, tilting his face to the side with an eyebrow raised. "Dean," you say softly, "please let me go."

He looks away, back to the mending of your wrist. He shakes his head. "Can't do that."

"Why not?"

He scoffs. "Do I really need to answer that?"

You are silent, staring into the side of his face with intent.

He sags a bit, finally cracking and dropping his walls. "I can't – I won't let you go because you lied."

"I didn't –"

"You did," he turns and glares at you, the hard look hitting you square in the eyes. "Not telling me everything is a lie. I don't know if there was anything you did tell me that was true. So that's why."

You breathe in slowly, speaking evenly and cool. "If I had told you from the beginning that Crowley took me in and took care of me, that he _cares_ for me, and he let me go on my own . . . would you have let me come back? Or would you have stabbed me where I stood?"

Dean frowns. "I wouldn't do that –"

"Bullshit." You spit. You frown deeply, leaning back away from him. "I lied, yes . . . but I did it to protect myself, because I knew you would hate me for it and do something rash. Which you did. I didn't want to hurt you, I never wanted that." Your hand freed from its shackles and still being held loosely in his comes up to touch the stubble of his cheek. You crack a smile when he doesn't pull away. "I really did miss you."

Those deep green eyes shine. His open palm cups your hand at his cheek and holds it there for a moment before pulling it away and averting his eyes. "Let me finish," he says softly as he continues dressing the raw flesh at your wrist and straps you back to the chair. After a few minutes, he sighs heavily. His shoulders sag and he closes his eyes, his fingers curling to hold your hand. He avoids your eyes skipping from your hand to his face, trying to read him like the open book he's become. He is pained. He is hurting.

"I don't think I could ever hurt you. Not—not that I don't want to. I'm pissed, but . . . but I was so happy you came back that I wanted to believe it all" He then whispers under his breath something only he wanted to believe. "Why did it all have to be a lie? Why couldn't it be real?" He stands and turns from you, rubbing his face as he retreats. He gets to the door and turns his head to regard you once more. He opens his mouth to speak, but clamps it shut, thinking better of it; but after taking a deep breath, he turns away again and says it anyway. "I can't let you go . . . because I know that you won't stay."

You feel a twisting in your chest. He sounds so hurt, so sad that it threatens to break your heart like the day you were taken. You remember his face right before he kissed you. You remember the light of his eyes when he held you in his bed last night. You remember the pain in those deep green eyes when you finally told him the truth. "You can't know that . . ." you say more to yourself than to him.

When he looks back at you, he smiles emptily, but his eyes are soul-shatteringly weak. "But I do." The smile drops, and he leaves you again. And then you feel the tears wetting your cheeks and chin.

Left in the dark again; all alone and broken again. You had hoped this feeling of helplessness was past you. You hate feeling it again.

You hurt Dean. You hurt him, and by the looks of it, he won't be coming back to you. _'Why did it all have to be a lie?'_

A while later, you're pulled from deep thoughts to more footsteps coming down the hall just past the barrier walls. You hope it's Dean; you want it so badly to be him so you can apologize. _'He needs to know I'm real. I mean it when I say it.'_

"Hey! Open up, please! Dean?" you screech out, sounding like a squawking crow shaking your strapped hands against the armrests of your chair. The leather binding them cuts at the fresh bandages, but the skin beneath screams at the pressure of your restraints and you grit your teeth against the sting of it.

The metal barriers creak open with the shrill scraping of metal against concrete just wide enough for a tall figure to slip through.

"Sam . . ." you rasp. Sam turns and stands tall before you, arms crossed over his chest and a frown etched into his face. "Sam, please let me explain. Can I see Dean? I need . . . I need to see Dean."

Sam shakes his head, his frown furrowing his brow deeper. "He doesn't want to see you right now."

You shake your head. Tears stream down your cheeks like ribbons. "This is all so wrong. I didn't mean for any of this to happen, Sam. You've got to believe me!"

"Were you ever going to tell us?" he asks. You freeze, your tears causing little hiccups to spasm your breathing as you try to steady yourself. Sam takes a step closer. "It's a simple question. Were you going to tell us that Crowley just _let_ you go? Yes or no?"

"Sam, of course I was going to tell you—"

"Were you going to tell us why?" he asks in a flat tone, his expression sour.

You pause again. _'How could I?'_ you ask yourself. How can you bring yourself to tell them that Crowley has grown fond of you; that you quickly became close to the King of Hell, the one man Sam and Dean can't trust in all the world. It is entirely possible that you are on your way to falling for Crowley, and that thought scares you. Less because you think he is unlovable, but more because of how easy you can picture yourself folded in his arms. You professed your love to Dean once, too.

You shrug, your leather straps chaffing. "I . . . Sam, I don't know. I could tell you, but I don't think you will believe me, or even want to hear it." Sam watches you unwaveringly. He wants an explanation, and he is not unfair to want one. You just don't want to give one. You close your eyes and hang your head. You take in a deep breath and ready yourself. "Alright, fine. Here goes. Crowley never tortured me in Hell." You shake your head. "He never did anything bad to me. Hell, the only bad thing to ever happen to me was none of his fault. He even made it better by giving me my own room and . . . and he took care of me."

You lift your head and open your eyes to see Sam's eyes narrow and his brow drop over them. "Did you sleep with Crowley?" he blurts out. He says it so uncaringly – so unlike Sam.

You flinch as if he hit you. "No, Sam, I didn't. Crowley never asked for that."

"But if he did, would you have slept with him?"

You feel anger bubble up from the pit of your stomach. The heat of blush rushes up your cheeks. "No," you say gritting your teeth.

"You sure? Because he must have let you go for a reason . . ."

"Fuck you, Sam!" You spit at him. It wasn't something you planned to do, but when a wad of saliva launched through the air and splattered on his arm, you felt a stab of pride and fear.

Sam glares down at the mess on his arm, unfolding his arms to wipe it away on his shirt. When he looks back at you, his face is blank, far more intimidating than a frown. "So, if you weren't putting out for Crowley, then why did he let you come here without a guard, or let you come at all? We could have killed you on sight. He wouldn't do something that stupid without a good reason."

Your voice shakes a bit. "He had a message. Something about a blade you were looking for."

Sam does frown then, the expression stretching even further down his face than before. He has slumped out of his tall and imposing posture and sags against the wall. He is quiet for a long time as you wait for him to react. All he does, though, is sigh heavily and turn his head away from you. "Come on out, Dean. You'll need to hear this, too."

Dean enters the dungeon from the cracked barrier doors. He looks furious.

"What do you know about the blade?" Sam asks.

"Nothing," you say quickly. They both glare, Dean's the fiercest. "Nothing, I swear. Please believe me!"

Dean laughs humorlessly, his glower made worse by an unamused smirk. "Why? No, why should we? Not a damn thing you've told us has been true!"

"Dean, please listen—"

"No! I'm done listening, so you listen to us now." Dean steps forward and crouches in front of you, bringing his fierce eyes to match yours. "Tell us what you know."

For the faintest of seconds, you think he will pounce. You imagine the hands that caressed your cheeks hours ago clenching around your throat like a viper. You think of Patrick, and suddenly it is Dean's face you see in your memories instead of Patrick hanging above you squeezing the breath from you.

From that memory, and from his face so close to yours, you feel brave instead of scared. You aren't the little girl that will cower away anymore. You are the woman that withstood Hell and its King. Your lips twist down in a set grimace, something as sour as his expression was cocky. "Do what you want, Dean. If you don't believe me, that's your fault. Not mine."

Sam smirks behind Dean. "Oh, brave little girl. Think we can't hurt you?" His grin is predatory. You would be scared . . . any other time you'd be pissing yourself to have him look at you like a lion looks at a hare. Not now.

"I know you won't."

"Why's that?" Dean challenges.

' _Because you told me so.'_ you think with a glint of strength. You grin, reveling in knowing that even if things were to stay out of your favor, you still have an ace in the hole. "Because Crowley is coming back for me. He'll be back soon, and if I am not waiting for him outside when he gets here, he will rain Hell down on the both of you."

Sam's face drops back into a deep frown. "What makes you think we're scared of him?"

You let out a bark of laughter. "Please, you two can't beat him! You would have forever ago if you could! What you don't know is how much I mean to him now. Let me go. Unstrap me from this damn chair, and we can forget any of this ever happened."

Dean, who has been suspiciously quiet this whole time, stand to his full height over you. "You've changed," he says low and rough, "and I don't think there is anything that can bring you back."

' _You've changed.'_ His voice echoes in your head as well. You watch them glare down at you, your breathing coming in short, rapid breaths. You aren't the girl he knew: the innocent little hunter, the girl that had only recently branched out into hunting in the field and was still so green. You aren't the little girl that told him she loved him. You aren't the little girl that threw herself in harm's way to protect him. What you are is an obstacle now. You are the thing that has come back to him altered and now he doesn't want you. You hurt in your chest, but it isn't heartbreak or pain or love lost. It is anger, pure and bitter to taste. You hated him for not coming for you, though he said he tried; you hate him because you stayed down in Hell for him and, now that you're back, you aren't good enough anymore; and you hate him for tying you up in his fucking dungeon!

You feel hot anger rise up through your chest and wash over your face. "This is your fault, Dean. All of it! You were the one that got in trouble! You were the one that didn't fight hard enough to keep me! If I've changed it was for you – it was all for you, you piece of shit! And now _you_ don't want _me_?"

Dean and Sam both look shocked and furious. Dean's shoulders draw back and he opens his mouth to shout all sorts of obscenities back when he freezes. His eyes lock on your chest.

He makes three quick steps and stands right in front of you, toe to toe. His hand strikes up and you think he will go for your throat, so you flinch back with a pained little squeak. But his fingers don't wrap around your neck and crush you. They latch onto the thick black cord hanging there and pull it so hard it snaps off. You shout and look to see Dean holding up Crowley's coin with a scowl on his face.

"Sam, Crowley's been listening to every word!"

"What?" Sam drops his arms and launches forward to see what Dean's got.

Dean glares from the coin to you. "It's a communicator coin. Crowley's used them before, remember? He's been listening in on everything." Then, Dean's face contorts, and he raises the coin to his mouth like a microphone. "Listen up, douchebag. Looks like we got something of yours and you got something of mine. You know where to find us. You have an hour, or I will personally do some harm to your favorite little plaything."

You panic. Crowley said he can't bring the blade to Dean. He made it sound like it was dangerous, and Dean is already too dangerous as it is. You start to shout. "Crowley, don't! He's bluffing, he won't do anything! Stay away, don't –"

Sam acts quick, using his large hands to squeeze at the corners of your jaw to pry your mouth open and stuff a handkerchief in it, choking you. You spit and gag and try to scream, but all it does is make you feel sick. You have to stop and breathe through your nose to keep from throwing up.

Just then, you feel a rumbling at your feet. It is subtle at first, a small vibration on your soles, but then you start to hear the rattling of glassware on the shelves in the adjacent room to the swinging of the lamp above your head. Before long, it is like an earthquake specifically for the Bunker. Sam and Dean look confused and worried, but a grin pulls the corners of your mouth around the rag.

Your cavalry is here.

You try to scream around the rag in your mouth, the thick dry fibers adhering to the moisture of your gums and cheeks like glue, but all that comes out are muffled cries and gasps for air. You feel your face burn red from exertion. Sam and Dean ran out of the dungeon a minute ago yelling something about a damn attack.

You squirm in your chair, pulling and kicking and trying to push the rag from your mouth with your tongue when you feel something give. Your wrist, the one Dean dressed . . . the strap has come loose. You start pulling at it frantically. Soon the leather strap slips through the knot and your hand is free. You grab the rag from your mouth, ripping mucous membranes as it goes, and throw it away as hard as you can. Then, you free yourself from that accursed metal chair and bolt out of the dungeon.

You can feel the vibrations like pulses at your feet. Something outside the Bunker is hitting the walls with enough force to rattle the lower levels and shift the ceilings, sending trickles of dust and plaster to rain down on top of you as you run through empty halls. You let the pulses guide you to the main door, swiftly and in a panic to be free. Endless hallways and countless turns lead you finally to the front of the massive concrete structure and you stand at the foot of the iron stairwell. Up on the landing, the large metal door fit with its massive locks is cracked, and outside you can hear shouting.

You run up the steps and push the door open, ready to be free.

Just beyond the woods, Crowley stands in front of a massive shifting black shadow. Hundreds of demons circle the Bunker, throwing themselves against its massive walls. Their leader stands imposing before them, not wavered at all by the twin guns pointed straight at him. Sam and Dean are only a few paces away, their faces hard and angry, but their eyes bounce around them nervously. They are surrounded.

Crowley sees you first. In a split second, he tilts his head toward yours and his eyes become softer, so glad to see you're okay.

You feel your heart beat faster as Dean catches the look and twists his face around to meet yours. He looks terrified.

"Sam! Get her back inside!" he shouts. Sam's whole body pivots as he catches you in his sights. He moves towards you, and you twist away from his hands just as they clasp around the hem of your shirt. You scream and writhe, trying to get away from his arms folding in around you.

You hear Crowley's voice bellow. "You don't touch her!" You can hear Dean shout after him. Crowley is moving towards you. When you pivot again, you see him and try to run to him, he being your saving grace right now.

Sam's hands grab you by the shoulders and hold you rooted in your spot. "Stop! We're trying to help you!" Sam screams in your ear past the subterfuge of demons circling above.

You shake your head. Your head and heart hurt. At one end of the thin line that has been made in your mind, Sam and Dean are where you should stay. They were family once. They were everything once. But now, what are they? They are the ones who locked you in a dungeon and strapped you to a chair and stuffed a rag in your mouth. On the other end, with Crowley is where you want to be. But should you want that? He took you and held you captive, but he protected you. He cares for you, or else he wouldn't have come for you when you needed rescuing. Both times.

Dean's stance is iron-clad, his arms out straight and locked in on his prey. Crowley is unflinching – not even concerned with the older Winchester, but with the younger who has a hold of you. His voice is calm. "Darling, have these bastards hurt you?" he asks with a deep frown.

You shake your head no but look down to see the bandages at your arm and wrist. You look up at Crowley unsure what to say. ' _They didn't do these?'_ But they did. _'They weren't intentional?'_ But they were.

"Hey! You don't talk to her. You talk to me." Dean's booming voice demands Crowley's attention. Crowley lazily turns his head back to him.

He grits his teeth. "Squirrel, I am done playing nice with you. Say one more untoward word and I will turn you inside out with my bare hands." Crowley takes one hand and places it inside his coat jacket, withdrawing a primal-looking weapon made of bone and teeth. A blade. The blade Dean wanted by the way his gun arm flinched into a straighter position. "Let's not pretend that all this chaos isn't over this little trinket. You want it, and I've got it."

Dean smirks. "You want her. We've got her."

"Don't play games with me, boy," Crowley growls.

Sam's hands around your shoulders grow tighter as the tension builds. Dean and Crowley are at a standstill, both sets of eyes furiously locked onto each other when neither are prepared to budge.

"Dean, you can't be—"

"I'm thinking, Sam!" Dean snaps his head over to his brother for only a second, but it is just long enough for Crowley to sprint forward the last few steps between them. A shot is fired as Dean recoils from him, but Crowley is quicker. His hand grabs the still smoking gun by the barrel and twists it from Dean's hand while the blade goes for his throat. A wicked snarl is stretched on his face as he bears down on Dean.

Dean ducks back in time to not get cut to seriously by the jagged teeth of the blade. He swings himself around to crash into Crowley's side, launching him a few feet to the left and closer to you and Sam.

Watching the madness unfurl terrified, you see a hazy visage of what would happen if one were to win and the other fall. You can't lose them. Either of them.

Crowley is on the ground trying to rock Dean's solid form off of him with no success while Dean's hands are on the jagged bony prominences of the blade as he pushes it down over Crowley's body. You hear Crowley's grunts when the blade starts to dig into his chest.

You don't think. With ferocity, you wriggle free of Sam's grip. You push him back with your elbows and jolt forward towards the chaos, ignoring his panicked screams for you to stay away. You barrel into Dean with all the force you can muster. You feel him turn and give beneath you, sliding off Crowley to tumble in the gravel. You push up off the ground with an elbow, not even feeling the prickle of rock in your palm. Your eyes scramble over the ground looking for the blade. _'Where is it? Where is it!'_

And then you feel it: pain.

Radiating, pulsing pain from your lower back and abdomen. Your hand goes there before your eyes do, feeling the ragged tip of the blade and hot, thick, slippery blood seep through your fingertips. Your mind fogs and all you can register is pain. Pain all over. Realization hits you slowly. You fell on the blade. It must have ended up beneath you when you pushed into Dean, and it has torn through your back at the side and protruded through your stomach.

Hands find you. Voices are all around you. You open your eyes and you see swirling black masses above. Pools of deep green and warm amber come into view.

"Oh, god . . . no," Dean's voice cracks. Wet drops fall on your face from his as he holds you on his knees. His hands shakily hover over the blade, not sure what to do but wanting so desperately to do something. Accidentally, his fingers graze the handle of the blade and the jolt shocks fresh pain up your side. You cry out. He begins to cry. "No, no, I . . . I'm so sorry . . . I'm–"

You feel steady hands place themselves tenderly at the sides of your head and you focus on Crowley's face. He kneels at your head and Dean is too distracted to chase him away. He has a serene look to his eyes and gazing into them takes a bit of the pain away, replacing it with a calm peace as he holds you. He leans down to place a tender kiss on your forehead. "Easy now, love. I'll see you soon."

And then he disappears just as Sam swipes down at him with an angel blade in a wild panic. Stunned, he drops to his knees beside you, helping Dean cradle you and ease your sobbing cries. They are apologizing. Each grabs a hold of a hand. Dean raises it to his lips, crying softly into it as he kisses it. "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry."

As the cloud of black demons dissipates and fades away, you shut your eyes – too weak to keep them open any longer. Silence shifts into sweet sounds of nature. Crickets and cicadas sing, and the air is cool.


	10. Epilogue

Chapter 10: Epilogue

The air outside is chilly, but the fires will keep him warm enough soon. Sam places the last of the logs on top of the pyre. Her body is wrapped in a thick cotton sheet, but Dean can still see the red tinge of blood seeping to the surface. He looks down at the ground, not being able to look at her anymore.

His heart burns. He wants to scream, to stab and punch and kick and cry out because he never wanted to lose her. She . . . she was so different. She was special . . . special to him.

When Dean met her, she was innocent. It was before she started hunting, and she was practically a baby to him. A little sister. She was fun and lively, smart as a whip, and had the potential of being one hell of a hunter in time. But she didn't get to have time to grow and be amazing . . . why? Because of Dean and his brother. She gave up herself to save him and he couldn't save her. He will never forgive himself for that.

Sam throws away the kerosene bottle, pulling his lighter out of a back pocket. Swiping his thumb against the wheel until he gets a light, he pauses, looking back at his brother. Dean nods, and then she is set aflame.

She was beautiful, even now engulfed in swaying hues of orange and red. Hours passed and her flames are dying away with her. Sam wipes at his face and steps away, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder before walking away. Dean stays.

When he is alone, behind him he hears the rustle of footsteps crunching grass. He doesn't come into view, but Dean knows who it was.

"You don't belong here," Dean says flatly. He's not sure he has the willpower to fight in front of her.

Crowley's voice is equally dead. "You weren't the only one who loved her."

He's right. Dean doesn't want him to be, but there is nothing to be done about it now. Now, even though he feels drained and empty without her, he has to remember why she isn't here. "This is your fault." Dean's hands clench at his sides, his nails biting into his palm.

"Dean—"

"You're the reason she's . . ." He sighs, a lone tear spilling down his cheek. "None of this would have happened if she never met you."

Crowley is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is even and rough. "I am not to blame. We both are. We both loved her, and that was her undoing. She died because she loved us, and it wouldn't have mattered if she had chosen you and it wouldn't have mattered if she had chosen me. We would still be here." He pauses, breathing in deeply before letting it hiss out his nose as it leaves. "You know, I have to wonder why she had to love us. Had she not, maybe she would have lived a long and happy life."

Dean bit his cheek. He's right again. Names pop up in Dean's mind: Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Dad, Mom. All people loved by Dean and they are all gone. If he loved them, then they ended up dead. He'd thought of it before and hoped she would be the exception. He wanted her so badly to be real, to stay. He should have known better.

"I know you have it," Crowley says softly. Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out the gold coin and black cord. There is a smudge of her blood on the face of the coin. Dean folds his hand around it securely, almost as if he can hold her closer. The thought did cross his mind to hold on to one piece of her in the hopes her ghost would be attached to it. It's why he didn't tell Sam; he felt horrible, trying to keep her soul tethered to him when she didn't want to stay with him while she was alive. But Dean isn't ready to let go. He never got to say goodbye, or to tell her that he loved her too, long ago. She deserved to know.

Crowley sighs. "Please don't let her stay too long. I couldn't bear the thought of her becoming . . ." The words freeze in his throat.

". . . vengeful . . . "

A hand comes up to rest on Dean's shoulder. His first instinct should be to pull it free from Crowley's grasp, but for some reason, Dean can appreciate the gesture. "Don't be selfish, Dean. Let her go when it's time."

Crowley disappears then, leaving Dean with the dying embers of one of his greatest regrets. He clutches the coin hard and brings it up to his lips. It isn't fair. Not to him and not to her. And not to Crowley, though he doesn't give a fuck what that rat wants.

But she did, and for that, he can pacify himself just this once. Dean approaches the pyre, its flames still licking at the base of the alter just barely kissing her, wishing he could do the same, just one more time. He kisses the coin, whispering her name before tossing it into the base of the pyre.

He watches it burn, his eyes stinging from smoke and tears.

Then, Dean feels a sigh of wind across his face. He wants to believe it's her, caressing him one last time before his mind can tell him otherwise. He sighs with the wind and opens his eyes. He imagines he sees her in the lining of the trees, their branches swaying like her waving goodbye.


End file.
